Insanity in General
by manic-intent
Summary: A relatively embittered Entreri in a Calimport gradually taken over by lawyers investigates a series of killings under order of the court. Yaoi(slash) warning. Zak and Entreri for fun. Finished!
1. Meetings in Madness

Disclaimer

            I'm bored, and besides, I haven't decided what I really want to do with this story.  It's supposed to be a short one, but these things never actually go the way I want them to.  It's also supposed to be a yaoi (homosexual or slash) pairing between Entreri and Zaknafein so as to scare (some members of) my dark elf fiction list, but nevermind.  Anyway, I don't own TSR, or FR, unfortunately, because if I did I wouldn't have to slog away at earning this stupid degree.

            Oh yes, if anyone wants to bribe me to stop writing this story, feel free. : )

--

Part 1: Meetings in Madness

            "My, what a surprise," Jarlaxle said urbanely, regarding the dark elven male before him over his book.  "To what do I owe the honor of this visit, Drizzt?"

            Drizzt glared at him.  The centuries had managed to mature his features somehow to resemble his father more greatly, but had failed to dull the slightly crazed zeal in his eyes that was the only distinguishing factor that Jarlaxle vaguely remembered of his friend's son.  While stubborn Zaknafein had only taken a few decades to grow out of his adolescent madness, Drizzt seemed to still be enmeshed within it, setting out on escapade after escapade on unsuspecting evil. 

            "You have not changed one bit," Drizzt said peremptorily, shooting Jarlaxle a look of barely concealed distaste.  The mercenary leader was comfortably ensconced in a luxurious room with all the trappings of wealth – bright satin, silk, velvet and brocade made up most of the decorative fabrics, and there was an uncomfortably heavy scent in the air, sickly sweet like barely rotten fruit.  The older elf was in a thick chair, legs propped up with laconic grace on an expensive mahogany desk, reading what looked like a run-of-the-mill cheap adventure story.  

            "I doubt you came through all my guards to tell me that," Jarlaxle smiled.

            "Your guards let me in," Drizzt said, his voice faintly disappointed, and for a moment Jarlaxle saw the ghost of Zaknafein in that attitude, a wolf betrayed of a good fight.  "They were even… polite… about it."

            "I would think so," Jarlaxle remarked, "For they are all well-mannered creatures."

            Drizzt crossed his scimitars, which gleamed in the dull light of the chamber like captured crescent moons.  "They will not stop me from killing you."

            Jarlaxle raised an eyebrow, as if he could not comprehend why anyone would want to kill him.  Or could.  "You came here to kill me?"

            "I came here to kill you if you did not tell me what happened to my father, or where he is now." Drizzt said shortly.  "I heard he appeared in Calimport."

            Jarlaxle chuckled, causing Drizzt to grip his weapons more tightly, as if for reassurance.  "Why did you not just ask?"

            "Well…" Drizzt looked embarrassed, but only for a moment.  "Sorry."  Drizzt was definitely becoming more like his father, Jarlaxle thought.  Zaknafein generally started most conversations with him via a death threat, as well.  Except that Do'Urden Elder never apologized.

            "No matter.  I will tell you what happened of date… then where he is now, if you still wish to know."

            "Of course I would," Drizzt said indignantly. 

            "If you say so," Jarlaxle said, with that mysterious, irritating air he exuded whenever he was about to pull an ace.

**

            Nose wrinkling, the man remembered belatedly the reason why he'd given up the 'pleasure' of skulking in alleys to subordinates a few centuries ago and spent most of his current days in relative comfort around the apex of Calimport's greased-rung social ladder.  Until now.  

            The problem, he decided, probably started when demons began breeding with humans, because the sheer chaotic devilry of civilization now just _had_ to be Abyssal in origin.  He was, of course, talking about 'lawyers' and the rest of the recently instituted criminal justice system in Calimport and all the major cities in Toril.  When he was young, the man thought, or at least, normally young, there was no Courts nonsense.  If you infuriated someone enough, that person would just take out a contract on you, and either one of you would die, depending on who had the better bodyguard or assassin.  That was fine by him, because he got paid, and, since he was good enough to be able to choose his jobs with discretion, it meant the occasional challenging fun accompanied with lots of money.

            Now, however…

            A sound – he froze against a grimy wall that had seen better, red-bricked times, and was now a solid film of gray-green filth and graffiti, regretting it instantly, hoping that he had not done irreparable damage to his clothes.  The edge of his dark gray cloak flicked aside to reveal a metal gauntlet of a strange pale-bronze color, haphazardly fused with curious dark gems that seemed to wink in the filtered light of the moon, like near-blind eyes.  A slithering, metallic rasp, as a short sword extended from his palm like a dealer producing a card, and eventually his sheathed, clawed fingers closed against the reassuring hilt of the blade.  

            He could not remember what the blade had been called, or whether it had been a set with the gauntlet, that had been modified so many times over the years that it was now part of his left arm, and half-sentient, at that.  But he remembered the feel of it in his palm, its weight and swing, and its power… 

            Cautiously, he looked around the corner.  Nothing he could see, but there were so many obstacles in the form of filling dustbins and rotting boxes that he could not take it for granted that he was alone.  He walked forward, taking care to scan the area neatly – sheer walls, empty fire escape ladders and platforms, boarded-up windows, glass stained mud-brown by the elements.  

            A flash of white from the front – he started forward, just in time to see a child-sized, hooded figure run away around the corner.  

            "Wait!" he called, not that it worked.  He sprinted over, and, in accordance with dramatic rules, was just in time to see the child disappear into a crowd, some of whom favored him with looks of vague curiosity that were immediately averted once they took in the gauntlet and the sword, as famous as their owner.  Entreri paused for a moment to look around wildly, scanning the faces of shopkeepers and dusty, weary travelers, brightly colored merchants with tight faces accompanied by burly armored bodyguards, footmen attending clattering carriages, blank laborers, sedan chairs, the noise surging like a tide and drowning out completely any sounds of little running feet.

            He bit out a curse and settled for looking at footprints.  Child-like and small, they triggered an alarm in his head, and he decided to take a drink on it and think.  It wasn't as though he had any other leads at the moment, and the Courts were still breathing down his neck.

**

            It had been a few days ago when he was suddenly summoned before the High Court of Calimport and told summarily that unless he were to catch the serial killer currently roaming around Calimport happily executing people at random, he would be charged on many counts of first degree murder and such and sentenced to death.  

In his astonishment, Artemis Entreri, the greatest assassin in Calimport history, could only gape at the Chief Justice, a wizened man with a piercing gimlet gaze, that, just decades ago, he would not hesitate to kill.  As it was, he'd listened to the rest of the verdict in a daze, but he did understand that if he ignored this, he would definitely have to change his face, maybe flee the continent, now that all the Faerun Courts were working with each other.  He'd never be able to do business in present days, if he were a highly wanted criminal.  

Everything had changed _so_ much.

            As he'd said, it was no time to be an assassin.  All the old ones had either been sentenced or restarted their life in business.  

            His lawyer Nask, a stout, disconcertingly intelligent human who never failed to remind him of a bulldog, had 'advised' him to continue on the Court's wishes, renounce his name as an assassin, and fall under the Law.  The first he would do for now, the rest he would consider.  

            It wasn't even fun anymore.  He'd actually been sued once for assault when he'd threatened to dismember a snappish shop owner if he didn't tell him the location of someone's house, and he hadn't even _touched_ said shop owner.  Nask had informed him that 'assault' also included 'verbal' and 'mental' injury.  Claims that he hadn't been using magic just made his lawyer give him a lengthy explanation of the terms that had left Entreri with a headache and a cynical disillusionment of the world.  

He'd almost wished that he had never come across the stupid jeweled dagger.  Absorbing so much life force into his body had left him with more or less eternal life, which meant he was more or less stuck with a world that no longer made any sense.

            Caught up in his misery, Entreri barely noticed the waitress fearfully place a tankard in front of him, but he took a sip of it, brooding melancholically.  Lawyers! He really should try and messily kill every one of them, only that for some reason those he really detested earned even more money than he did (and therefore had small armies of guards), and set up firms that produced even more of the disgusting creatures, that set up even more of the ludicrous laws.  

It was, he reflected bitterly, a nightmarish chain reaction.  Even the Dark Elves had withdrawn their interests in the Surface world, as far as Bregan D'aerthe was concerned anyway, something that armies and military threats had failed to do so in the past.

            "One day…" Entreri muttered under his breath, glowering at the crowd, and more importantly, at the black-and-white robed members.  The children in it reminded him of his mission.

            The serial killer was widely thought to be a shapeshifter of some sort, except that magical readings showed that there were actually two distinct presences in each crime scene.  There were nearly always a child's footprints, and always the track of boots, larger than a child's, but more slender and smaller than an average man's, but definitely masculine.  

            Witnesses often spoke of seeing a child-like figure hooded in dirty white, barefoot, running to or away from the scene, but this proved to be a useless lead, as much of the city's beggar children took to wearing the same sort of clothes.  People were, after all, less predisposed to trying violence against a potential shapeshifter, and were more inclined to give charity, in case they became the next victim, proving that the beggar children were definitely much smarter than, say, the city police.

            The tankard was empty.  Entreri gave it an accusing look, as if hoping that it'd fill up again, before dumping some change on the table and leaving into the crowd, in as foul a mood as he'd been in since the entire fracas.

**

            Blast it! He'd lost the child _again_.  Definitely the same one he'd seen in the alley.  He, or she, seemed to be following him with a canny intelligence and experience that did not fit his or her probable age.

            It was turning into a really stupid game of cat and mouse.  One thing he knew for sure was that the kid was definitely not one of the normal street children, all of whom knew who he was, and would not _dare_ toy with him like this.  

            Skidding around a corner, slightly out of breath, all he saw was a thin, muddy brown alley cat, which regarded him with a reproachful look before disappearing into the dirty piles of none-too-fragrant refuse.  Entreri took the moment to swear colorfully in all the languages that he knew, and was just starting on Dark Elven when his sharp ears caught a snatch of conversation somewhere above him.  

            Half a conversation, anyway.

            "… I told you he'd know… well he's speaking your… all right, maybe… oh damn!" This last when whoever it was seemed to notice Entreri had stopped swearing and was looking upwards, weapons drawn.

            The same child, face shaded so much by the hood that he could only make out a defiant chin and dirty, small clenched fists, before the child squeaked and scrambled up through one of the grimy windows, into the darkness of the building.  Frantically, Entreri searched around for an entrance, found none, cursed again, and managed to haul himself up to the platform above via the slimy, jammed ladder let half-down to the street, somehow squeeze through the window, muttering about having to lose some weight, and found himself falling.

            Hands grabbed at nothing, and Entreri remembered belatedly one of the unwritten Assassin rules, to look before you step… the floor must have been gaping, rotted holes in areas, nothing but darkness below him… and there was a sudden horrible vision of eternal life ending in broken, ebbing pain alone, drowning in blackness…

            A callused palm caught his right wrist in a grip like a vice.  There was a grunt of effort above him as whoever it was absorbed the impact of the arrested fall and the assassin's full weight, said something unintelligible, then Entreri felt himself being pulled upwards.  Scrambling gratefully onto ancient wooden boards, he looked up warily into the face of his rescuer, and nearly fell backwards into the hole in surprise.

            A dark elf!

            There was no mistaking the ebony skin and the shock of silvery hair, the calculating, coldly intelligent eyes and the wicked twist to the sensual mouth.  A male, tall for his species, in adamantine armor… one of Bregan D'aerthe? No, that armor did not look like the mercenary group's uniform… Back on his feet, Entreri drew his weapons pragmatically, and then added, rather awkwardly, "Thank you."

            The male cocked his head curiously, as if not understanding, and the dim light through the window pushed the shadows and silver strands of hair away from his face.  Entreri blinked in astonishment – that such beauty existed in mortal form, even in that on an elf! It was hypnotic, the easy grace with which the male drew himself to his full height – half a hand or so shorter than the assassin… he found himself gaping, like some vulgar commoner.  A part of his stunned brain screamed for attention – there was something nearly familiar about the dark elf's features that eluded him.

            Then the elf smiled – smirked, really – did he notice? Of course he noticed, Entreri thought irritably – he, a master assassin, was rather disturbingly acting like a schoolgirl with a crus… oh no.   He felt with horrified fascination a warm flush begin to creep up his cheeks.

**

            Somewhere in an alternative dimension, the Author laughs evilly at the terror on all her non-yaoi readers.

**

            A child walked unhurriedly in the crowd, jostled and knocked around by the uncaring rush of people above her.  If anyone paid attention, they would have heard her muttering, apparently to herself.

            "…what did you do that for? … Yes, I mean your fighting him and beating him unconscious then leaving him there… no, of course I won't want you to kill him, why do you think I'm helping you? We have to get you out of… well he does have a connection to your friend… so I thought…there's no talking to you…"

            Rather irritated now, the child reflected on how normal children generally just had imaginary friends.  The imperative word, of course, in that sentence, was 'imaginary'.

**

            Entreri woke up in a dull haze of pain.  He was bleeding in multiple light gashes on his arms and legs, and his stomach and temple still hurt.  Vaguely he remembered a blur of speed and terrifying skill that dashed aside his defenses, arcs of silver crescents and wicked blades, then a knee in his stomach, falling on the ground, and the hilt of a sword approaching with purposeful momentum, then darkness.

            What had that elf done _that_ for? 

            In any case, if anyone could be the serial killer, that elf must have been it.  Other than a few apparently random defenseless civilians, the killer had also murdered several mercenaries known for their skills in magic and weapons.  Some of the pieces fit – the wounds, made by two keen, well-made swords, the precision, and the child.  

            The piece that fit the most was the sudden twist in the handsome face from one of indifferent contempt into sheer, bloodthirsty insanity, and the elf had charged him with a snarl, like a maddened beast, with an expression Entreri had seen before only in the mental ward of Calimport hospital, normally on those either dropped on their heads in birth, born wrong, or victims of torture.

            Entreri knew the value of keeping an open mind, but he decided to concentrate on this lead.  

            It had nothing to do with the elf's hypnotic beauty.  Nothing at all.

            Wearily, he picked himself up, wincing at the cuts, and somehow managed to get himself out of the window and back down to the alley.  After a few turns, he came upon an unlucky drunkard.

            "Wh'?" the drunkard mumbled, staring blearily at the assassin.  Entreri shrugged, and stabbed quickly with the dagger, shuddering as the life force drained into him and healed his wounds.

            Now he had to hunt.  He had lived in and explored Calimport for decades, and could hypothesize with some confidence where the elf and the child could hide out…

**

            Exhausted and frustrated, the sun setting lazily behind him, Entreri managed to drag himself up all the stairs of his organization's headquarters towards his bedroom, nodding at his subordinates.  It had been a week, with concerted efforts from lower minions, but there had been no sign of a dark elf anywhere in the chaos of the city.  It was as though he had vanished after the embarrassing trouncing he had given Entreri.  

            Headquarters was a blocky, ugly building with a peeling paint job near the commercial heart of Calimport, and handled the paperwork of all the businesses under Entreri's thumb.  Nearly all of them were legal, too.  In a sense, they were some indication of how the world was changing – the legal side of his business now made considerably more money than the illegal side, if you discounted the drug trade, which was partly legal anyway.  

            More importantly, the building was heavily guarded and thickly fortified with good masonry and protective wards, and his room was comfortably placed in a good position for retreating to or running from.  Entreri was actually rather proud of the place – he had a huge influence in the plans (which probably explained the lack of decoration and squat unloveliness about the area as well).

            On reflection, he probably shouldn't have made his room so high up.  

            Stumbling towards the door, he let himself in, and then leant against it until he heard the reassuring click of the lock.  Home at last!  
            "What the…"

            The elf was perched rather precariously on the back of a stone chair, watching him with mild curiosity, arms lazily hanging to either side, like a gangly bird.

            "How did you get in here?" Entreri demanded, drawing his weapons, even though he knew they were relatively useless against the elf, especially in his exhaustion.  

            "Without much difficulty," the elf said, in heavily accented Common, and smirked.  Instinctively, Entreri braced himself, but no attack came.  "You humans do not know how to… make buildings."

            "Why are you hunting me?" Entreri asked, irritated at the jibe towards his architecture skills.

            "Why are _you_ hunting _me_?" the elf shot back, apparently amused.  

            "Because you've been killing people in this city."

            "Why do you care? So do you."

            "At least I'm paid to do it."

            "And that makes a difference?"

            Entreri glared at the elf, deciding to ignore that question.  "What are you here for?"

            "I wanted to know if you still keep in contact with Jarlaxle."

            "Jarlaxle?"

            "Yes.  There is something I need him to do for me."

            "What?"

            "Separate me from the child's body."

            "Eh?" Entreri looked around a little wildly.  "I don't see any…"

            "So I can…" the elf leaped nimbly down onto the ground, long, silvery fringe shadowing his face.

            "Can?"

            "Destroy _everything_," the elf whispered, his smooth voice spicy with accent now a harsh rasp of hatred, and Entreri found himself looking into the maddened eyes of a beast.

**

            He came back into consciousness feeling submerged under a conversation.

            "… you did it _again_.  And scared him this time I think… well of course it was _your_ fault, he didn't even _attack_ you, not that you care of course… oh, um, hello."

            Something soft – he was on his bed, still fully dressed in armor, hurting again.  When his vision focused, he saw the child sitting cross-legged on the table in his room (didn't anyone know how to use chairs properly?), regarding him solemnly.  He… no, probably a she, now unhooded – had a shaved head with strange blue circular symbols painted onto it, and large serious eyes of the same color.  Nearly painfully thin, she smiled hesitantly at him.  "Hey.  Sorry about that."

            "Where's that elf?"

            "Um.  This is going to be a little hard to explain."

            Entreri forced himself into a sitting position.  "I have time."

            "Okay… I know this is hard to believe, but I was created by a group of wizards for some unknown purpose, then one day they put me under a spell and I woke up with Zaknafein in my head…"

            Zaknafein, Zaknafein… that name seemed familiar… vaguely, he realized the girl was still talking.

            "…So we've been trying to find a way to separate, because even though he's inherently likeable, he's also really psychotic."

            "You have a good vocabulary for a child."

            "That's insulting."

            'Sorry."

            "The wizards put an intelligence upgrade in me, apparently, so it's okay," the child grinned.

            Entreri sighed.  Wizards? Dual personalities? Intelligence upgrade? Someone had probably stolen this plot from a lot of those banal rubbish fantasy stories.

**

            Somewhere in an alternative dimension, the Author considers murdering her characters for far too much analytical criticism.

**

            "And where does Jarlaxle fit into this?" Entreri asked.

            "Well, Zaknafein says that untrustworthy as he is, Jarlaxle knows a lot of things and a lot of people, so…"

            "True.  Er… Jarlaxle retired from the Surface decades ago, and I don't know if I can still contact…" Entreri paused when he saw the girl frantically waving her hands at him.  "What? What?"

            "You still possibly can contact him right?"

            "Er, probably, possibly…" Entreri frowned irritably, realizing that he was beginning to panic from the words of a tiny child, which wasn't helping his image very much.  "Why would I want to contact him?"

            "Because if you can't, Zaknafein just said that he might as well kill you," the child said, still gesticulating.

            "Ah." This was turning into a really miserable day.      "Can I have some time to think this over?"

            "No." The child squeaked when she realized that her voice had changed, turning into Zaknafein's masculine purr.  She muttered something, and then grinned sheepishly at Entreri, her normal voice returned.  "Sorry about that.  My name's Sam."

            "Sam?"

            "Yeah, I know it's a boy's name, but those wizards were actually intending to call me Doreen, so…"

            "My name is Artemis Entreri," Entreri said, deciding to sheathe his weapons, in case their intimidating nature tipped the shape scales over into Zaknafein's favor.  Besides, if she changed back to Zaknafein anyway, chances were they wouldn't do much good.

            "I know that already," Sam said with a smile. 

            "Quite.  And… one question… when you change into Zaknafein, where does he get all the armor and swords from?"

            Sam shrugged.  "We both don't know.  I think it's probably one of those convenient story devices."

**

            Somewhere in an alternative dimension, the Author readies a thunderbolt.

**

            "Oh, and Zaknafein says he wants to talk to you."

            "So long as it's just _talk_," Entreri said, with a forced grin.  "I doubt my pride has recovered from the previous 'talks'."

            "Really sorry about that," Sam said apologetically, "But due to his, um, stay in Hell Zaknafein is now quite um, insane," She paused, turning her head to the side, as if listening to something, then added "But you are…! And tends to switch without much warning.  Since you're just about his only hope of contacting Jarlaxle, he probably won't kill you." She smiled brightly.

            "_Probably_?"

            Sam deflated a little as she realized that the last rush of words hadn't slipped past the assassin.  "Well, he's been in my head for a month or so and even _I_ can't tell."

            "Can he be… fixed?"

            Sam hesitated, and then chuckled.  "Zaknafein says he's not a tool to be broken and fixed, but personally I hope so.  Was hoping that Jarlaxle would know how to do _that_."

            "What does he want to talk to me about?" Entreri tried stalling for time.

            "He said he'd tell you when he's talking to you… okay, I'm going now.  See you later."

            "Wait… where do you go when you change?"

            "Somewhere nice and quiet where I can't see or smell the blood.  Normally I don't stay with him and eavesdrop." Sam pulled nervously at one of her fingers.  "I don't really like what he does."

            Before Entreri could open his mouth again, there was an odd distortion in the air around Sam that made his eyes water if he attempted to stare at it, then a strange feeling of juxtaposition or replacement – then Zaknafein sat on the table in her place, chain mail clinking as it settled.  "_Vendui_, Entreri."

            Entreri decided to sit down on his bed in resignation.  "_Vendui_, Zaknafein.  You wished to speak with me?"

            "In part." Zaknafein nodded.  "I know you have had dealings with my son."

            "Your son?"

            "Drizzt Do'Urden."  
            "Drizzt is your son?" Entreri blinked.  "So _that_ is why your name sounded so familiar…"

            "Quite.  I gathered while in Hell that he is somewhat notorious now in the Surface world."

            "You could say that," Entreri said diplomatically.

            "And you are his enemy."

            "Used to be," Entreri corrected quickly.  "We went our own ways after a few years."

            "Ah? He never did like wolves."

            Entreri frowned.  That appeared to be a non sequitur as far as he was concerned.  "I am not sure about his disposition towards canines."  
            Zaknafein slid off the table and walked – stalked actually – towards him.  "I was not talking about canines."

            Entreri reached for his dagger, and then froze when he suddenly felt the tip of one of Zaknafein's swords at his throat.  A quick glance at Zaknafein's face showed that the amiable, somewhat benign expression of mischief had not changed.  Was this some new sort of game…?  
            Or was his mood just about to change?  
            "You need not look so frightened – I am not about to kill you," Zaknafein said, the sword edge moving up along Entreri's jaw line to just over his eye.  "Or ruin that pretty face."

            Pretty face?  
            "Speak for yourself," Entreri said, a little breathlessly.  If he drew his weapons while ducking to the side he might… end up with a punctured eye and probably accidentally cut himself in the process.  Not good at all.

            "All elves are 'pretty', but there always seems to be something attractive about you humans." Zaknafein said idly, as if he were talking about different breeds of rabbits or something.  

            "Then why did you kill so many?"

            "I have killed far more elves in my lifetime than you humans," Zaknafein replied, avoiding the question.

            "I was sent by the city Council to try and kill you."  Entreri said, hoping to prod out some other sort of reaction, and simultaneously praying that it wouldn't be the homicidal one.

            "Try? Well, you have tried.  You can tell your 'Council' that much," Zaknafein said, a little cheerfully.  "You lack technique and a good teacher."

            "And your centuries of experience."  
            Zaknafein moved the blade to lift his chin with the flat of the sword, and then turned it such that Entreri could just feel the faintest line of pressure from the edge, and cold metal against his Adam's apple.  "I did not spend all my centuries doing that."

            "No?"

            "I also learnt a lot about _this_," Zaknafein whispered, abruptly leaning downwards and claiming Entreri's mouth in a rough kiss, tongue exploring his depths.  Stunned, Entreri dared not move in any case, as the edge of Zaknafein's sword was still far too close to his neck for his own comfort.  And it wasn't as though he wasn't enjoying… _no_.  Instinctively, he jerked backwards away from the gesture, wildly trying to retreat as Zaknafein climbed onto the bed after him, his predatory grin somehow managing to enhance his attractiveness.

            Following narrative causation and evil Author whims, Entreri's shoulders felt the cold rough stone wall behind him, and he tried to scramble out left, cursed and kicked when Zaknafein caught his right wrist in an ironic parallel to the previous meeting in the broken house, missed, fell onto his side, and to complete the circle of bad luck felt the elf lock his arm behind him and press down on his legs in a very efficient restraint.

            "Let me go!" Entreri tried the one line most people use (ineffectively) whenever cornered.  

            "Why? I'd just catch you again." Zaknafein said matter-of-factly, and then proceeded to remove the jeweled dagger, examine it curiously for a second, and then toss it aside.  The same fate occurred to Entreri's scabbard and any number of throwing knives, until the elf was relatively satisfied that the assassin was now relatively unarmed except for the angrily clenching gauntlet.  Then he leaned back, sword-tip back at the assassin's Adam's apple.  "Now take off your clothes and armor."

            "_What_?"

            "You heard me."

            "Sam!" Entreri attempted to appeal to the last person who could probably help.

            "She can't hear you, assassin."  Zaknafein smiled again, like a hunter poised over prey.  "No one can."

**

            The Author pleads guilty towards using stereotypical devices in her dialogues.  What the hell, this wasn't meant to be serious anyway.

**

            A short and somewhat horrified while later, Entreri attempted another appeal, this time towards Zaknafein's potentially rational side.  "Look, if you wanted something…"

            "Shut up," Zaknafein growled.   

            "Zaknafein…"

            "I told you to shut the _vith_ up."  To emphasize this threat, the blade drew a thin line of blood on his neck.

            Definitely a highly awkward position, Entreri thought through a haze of panic.  Pinned face-up now, naked under an obviously mad dark elf that smelled not unpleasantly of leather, metal, sweat and something fiercely wild, irrationally alluring… he could not stifle a moan at the next kiss, even with metal at his throat and chain mail against his chest.

            "Where are your teeth, little wolf?" Zaknafein murmured, licking down his throat and briefly rasping his own teeth on the skin over his jugular vein.  Entreri froze over the veiled threat in this act, but Zaknafein merely nipped playfully at his neck, brushed soft lips against the stinging wound, then continued downwards with painful slowness licking, biting, sucking, until Entreri was a groaning, writhing mess, couldn't think, couldn't resist… 

**

            To the relief (and disappointment) of the list members, we draw our attention away…

**

            Entreri woke up first, and wondered, as he tested to see (out of habit) if he was still alive, why he did not even feel like killing Zaknafein at all.  That in itself was strange, since he generally absently just thought of the ways he could kill someone whenever he saw anyone.  It was an automatic result of his job.

            And, after all, he was sore in dozens of areas and still bleeding from some, and the perpetrator was sound asleep with him, arm lightly draped over his chest, handsome head tucked under his chin.  

            Why did Zaknafein trust him that much, all out of a sudden? Or was he just far too exhausted?

            Probably unlikely, and besides, Entreri did not want to dwell far too long on that thought, as it brought back embarrassing memories that his body informed him were not all unpleasant, even though a lot of them hurt.  Was this some sort of flaw in his own psyche?

            Far too many questions in the morning.  Entreri considered trying to get out of bed to the private bathroom, weighed the chances of Zaknafein waking up if he shifted, then decided irritably that he didn't care.  Perhaps it was an after-effect of the night, but he was feeling incredibly light-headed and disinclined to accommodate.  There was something else about the idea of 'morning' that pulled at his attention as he cautiously moved the elf's arm off his chest, and then realized it was sunlight.  Dark elves were averse to sunlight, weren't they?  He reached out and touched the rope of the closed curtains, twining it in his callused fingers, then sighed irritably as he found that he couldn't bear to pull it open and flood the room in searing gold.  

            Muttering darkly to himself, he edged as quietly as he could to the edge of the bed, then yelped when something grabbed his arm and yanked him backwards, sprawling him in an undignified manner over Zaknafein's lap.  The elf grinned wickedly at him, now sitting up.  "Where are you going?"

            "To wash up," Entreri said, trying to free his arm from Zaknafein's grip. 

            Zaknafein frowned at him, as if not understanding.

            "To… bathe?" Entreri ventured a synonym.

            "Ah." Zaknafein smiled again, somehow making the assassin feel even more discomfited.  "Then I'd come with you."

            "Um.  I normally bathe _alone_," Entreri said, knowing that he was already on the losing end of the conversation.

            "There is always time to learn new habits," Zaknafein purred, emphasizing his point by using his other hand to explore.  Entreri caught it quickly with his gauntleted hand.  

            "No."

            "No? That is not what you said a few hours ago."

            "That _was_ a few hours ago."

            "You want a good reason for me to bathe with you?"

            "If you put it that way, yes."

            "It is good to see that you wake with your reason," Zaknafein said, letting go of his arm, then reaching somewhere between the bed and the wall.  With a sinking heart, Entreri watched him point the still bloody blade at his neck.  "Is this a good enough reason?"

            "Fine.  Put that away." The assassin was astonished that his voice was steady.

            "But if you need more convincing later…"

            "Please."

            Zaknafein stared at him long enough for Entreri to feel distinctly uncomfortable, and then he smiled and left it on the covers as if he didn't care a whit at all.  Entreri sighed again.  He had the horrible feeling that weapon or not, Zaknafein could still best him in combat.

**

            "So you'd stop all the killing?"

            "Why do you ask?"

            "Well, Council requires that I stop the serial killer."

            "I believe you said that your Council merely told you to 'try' and stop the killer," Zaknafein pointed out from his cross-legged seat on the private dining table in Entreri's apartment.  It had been a few days, and the dark elf had shown no intention of leaving, to mixed feelings on the assassin's part.  It was somewhat intimidating (naturally) having to live with an insane murderer, and the madness itself was somewhat unnerving – there were considerably more aspects to it, including the rather violent and inexplicable mood swings.

            To show the strange nature of human feelings, Entreri still woke up with a greater sensation of peace next to the dark elf.  It was as though, lying in the darkness with darkness, he somehow moved nearer to his light.


	2. Faces of the Tarot

Author's Note: Bribe me, c'mon!

And I admit to uh, having mild obsessions with tarot cards.

Part 2

Faces of the Tarot

            He should never have given the mask to Zaknafein.

            In fact, Entreri wasn't quite sure why he had handed the artefact over to the dark elf in the first place, only that it seemed like a good idea at that time.  Increasingly, most of the things he let Zaknafein do came under that category, like the rather famously stupid one involving him allowing (perhaps 'allowing' wasn't a very precise term when applied to the elf) Zaknafein to 'join' his organisation of assassins in the hope that systematic violence would aid in the reconstruction of his mind instead of randomised violence.  

Some good that had done – with a steady supply of jobs requiring his specialized skills, all that Zaknafein had done was to inexplicably appear to sharpen said skills back to what he perceived as their former peak.  Said that his time spent (being dead) had turned him out of practice.  

Entreri shuddered to think what such a peak might have been.  And unfortunately, the mood swings seemed to have become not only worse, but Zaknafein was now apparently more 'dominant' a personality and it was no longer much of an issue of Sam's control regarding whether or not he chose to show himself.  She hadn't seemed to mind, though – wherever she 'went' when he was out seemed to be, to her, a much nicer place than reality.

            At least the Council appeared to have accepted his rather contrived account of having stopped the serial killer, not that they really had much choice in the matter.  What they didn't know was that the killer was, in fact, _still_ killing, but at least it wasn't just anybody unlucky enough to chance into his way now.  Hopefully.  One always got a feeling of a severe lack of control or unbalance when it came to that elf, and Entreri couldn't afford the time from his schedule to keep a close eye on Zaknafein _all_ the time.  He was far too unpredictable.

            Take the mask for example.  

Entreri entered his chambers wearily to find Zaknafein on his favourite perch – atop his dining table, staring into space.  Today his face was something Entreri thought of as the Hanged Man, with the injured, lost, suspended-before-death expression he had always associated with the tarot card.  It wasn't that Zaknafein used the mask to run amok with a vast range of different faces and species – that Entreri _could _deal with, if barely – but he used the mask to create a series of the _same_ faces. 

            Intrinsically the same, anyway – definitely always with Zaknafein's uniquely handsome features – but there was always something obscurely different about each one, in the expression or demeanour, that grated on the assassin's nerves.  And the hair was different for each face  - for example, in the Hanged Man it was waist-long and unkempt, almost greasy, in a magnificent, pitiful ruin.  The mask had definitely exacerbated Zaknafein's condition – now not only could he act the different moods, he could _look_ it.  

            Attempts on the assassin's part to remove the mask in several different situations and times had just ended rather pathetically.  Besides, on the one time he succeeded, Zaknafein had entered such a murderous rage that he'd had to return it before he, the master assassin of Calimport, had gotten disembowelled with a silver fork. 

            Entreri forced a smile as he greeted the elf.  This was one of the faces he didn't like.  "_Vendui_, Zaknafein," he said as politely as he could, ignoring the obvious, brittle small-talk miasma normally attached to the next part of his address.  "How was your day?" 

He didn't add that he knew, through a careful network of trustworthy spies, more or less (generally less, since his spies were still not as skilled at surveillance as Entreri himself was, or as good as Zaknafein at avoiding said surveillance) exactly what Zaknafein had done for today – which was, unexcitingly enough, sitting in his current position and staring at the wall, sometimes muttering repetitively in the Dark Elven tongue.  Unexciting was _good_.

            Zaknafein didn't even look at him, but continued staring blankly into the air.  Okay, so sometimes unexciting was just a little unsettling…

            Entreri cautiously edged closer to the dark elf, all the while noting with relief that all visible weapons were relatively out of reach.  "Zaknafein?"

            Circling fully around to directly face him, the elf still continued looking fixedly at a point somewhere behind his head.  It was decidedly annoying – he had to keep convincing himself that he wasn't invisible.  "Zaknafein?" Entreri touched the elf's cheek with tentative fingers.  That started some reaction – Zaknafein muttered something inaudible.

            "What?"

            Without changing his stare, the elf repeated, "Does it matter?"

            "What does?"

            "Anything.  Everything.  Living."

            Entreri sighed inwardly.  He really did not like this face.  "Why?"

            "Nothing makes a difference if it disappears."  
            "Er… are you well?"

            "Nothing makes a difference."

            "Zaknafein…"

            "Does it?" At this, the painfully bewildered gaze shifted to focus on the assassin's face. 

            _You do_.  Entreri opened his mouth, closed it, and then to his irritation only managed to say, "Are you tired? Maybe you need to rest." 

**

            Ricklar sat in his chair, amply filling its every inch, as he examined with a plump hand a set of trade laws.  The hand was weighed down with enough jewelled rings to punch through a wall.  Life was good to the merchant, even in a city recently rising to the concept of an all-governing Law.  

            It was a pity that the other guilds were dying out, vaguely pitiful anyway.  It was such a pity about the Assassins, of course, but all in all, they were never very good customers anyway.  Thieves had mainly either gone further underground or joined the law profession, which, when all was said and done, merely required them to do a lot more talking with a lot less climbing and running away.  The mages had mainly branched into teleportation spells and communication – time was such a valuable commodity now, something that Ricklar understood to the decimal.

            Outside the window he could see the harsh blue sky watching over the increased chaos of the crowd now punctuated by the black of Law, of the nervous questioning smiles of the commoners when faced with a robed minion, though to be accurate that was just a tiny fraction of the burgeoning life that pervaded Calimport, that had always been with Calimport, the painted girls giggling and sidling down the bazaar, perhaps tonight they would see the river with some lovelorn swain, the swallows flirting their scissor tails on sagging red canvas covers, while uncountable traders screamed and shouted and acted.  Ricklar loved the city.

            After all, it was money that he could see in everything.  Lawyers needed robes, commoners needed food, girls needed cosmetics, swallows in cages, and traders with goods.  Everything was beautiful.  "Isn't it all beautiful, Hassim?"

            In accord to anyone in a bad story named Hassim, the burly, tanned bodyguard with a huge scimitar at the door grunted noncommittally.  

            About exactly twenty seconds later, Hassim choked, gurgled out blood on the priceless Kara-Tur carpet that adorned the marble floor of the chamber, and collapsed, sliding off a sword that protruded from the door.  With horrified fascination, Ricklar watched the sword withdraw, then the door was kicked open to show a figure hooded in shades of grey and brown, a tendril of silver hair teasing out to rub at the dull bronze clasp under his chin.  A glint of metal lower down revealed well-forged chain mail armour, but Ricklar was more fixed on the two bloody swords.

            "Ricklar D'set?" the intruder asked in a heavily accented voice.  

            "N-no, I just sit in for him…" 

            The intruder seemed to stare at a point behind Ricklar's ear, and then said, simply, "Voice identified."

            "Wait! _Wait_… I can pay you off…" 

            The intruder smiled then, with the cold promise of the Reaper.  "_Aluve_', Ricklar D'set."

**

            "Oh, hello, Sam," Entreri said with surprise, when the little girl walked into his office, dragging behind her the large stuffed toy bear that he had bought her a few days ago.  Bought for _Zaknafein_, actually – he'd found out that living in a little girl's head had rubbed some inclinations onto the elf, including the unexplainable preoccupation with little fluffy cuteness that resulted in compliant happiness.  _Very _compliant.

            Sam had grown a little hair, and now looked somewhat less like a strange alien from a forgotten civilisation.  Better clothes (for some reason unlike Zaknafein she could not produce clothing from different dimensions) and a bath had made her into a relatively pretty child, which allowed her the run of the place.  Besides, everyone knew that on will she could turn into a potentially murderous dark elf, so they were unfailingly polite and often offered little bribes to the tune of toys and sweetmeats.  All the pampering had the effect of turning her into a little Empress, Entreri thought wryly.  

            "Hello, Artemis," Sam said solemnly.  He had not managed to pry the habit of calling people by their first names out of her.  It was mildly irritating, as Zaknafein had also began, rather mischievously, to call him Artemis instead of his preferred surname during certain situations.

            "Did you want something?" 

            Sam climbed up onto the guest chair to the side of his desk, hugged the bear to her, and stared over its head with wide eyes.  When this got unnerving he prompted, "Yes?"

            "Just wanted to ask about Jarlaxle.  I notice Zaknafein never does seem to remember about it when he's with you."

            "He doesn't remember a lot of things," Entreri said, continuing to write.  The innocent stare cut like a lancet, in the manner of all childish stares.  "But yes, I have attempted to contact him.  He's lately gone into hiding."

            "What did he do?" Sam asked, the naïve worry in her voice almost laughably cute.

            "He was just himself, I guess," Entreri grinned.  "When he's _just_ himself for any period of time, people naturally want to kill him."

            "I don't understand that," Sam said, frowning.

            "You need to meet him to understand that." It was the way the elf moved, talked, and manipulated others - even the way he looked at you made you feel a little out of sync and therefore somehow more agreeable to whatever he was asking.  It was extremely annoying, and also extremely difficult to convey in rational terms to a little girl.  "You could ask Zaknafein."

            "Okay," Sam said agreeably.  "So when will he come?"

            "I did say 'attempted'.  He hasn't sent any answer yet, and I wouldn't get hopeful on an immediate solution.  Besides, with Jarlaxle there is always a cost to his… services."  
            "I don't have any money," Sam said, now a little sheepishly.

            "Zaknafein has been earning some, so, to a reasonable extent I can absorb the costs," Entreri said reassuringly.  

            "Thanks," Sam said happily.  "Mr. Bear says thanks, too."

            "Right, whatever." Entreri scrutinized her for a moment.  "Do you think you should be going to school?"  Calimport had a rather good, if still growing, institution of education that 'cultivated' children from a young age toward a more useful, educated life ahead.  Basically, most of them became lawyers.

            "Well… Bashik has been teaching me how to steal things." Sam said proudly.  "He said in a few months after I'm done with pickpocketing I can learn how to break into houses."

            "Oh.  That's all right then."

**

            Darkness and three flat, interchangeable voices – for some moments, one might think that it was but one voice, speaking to himself.

            "How goes progress?"

            "To use an old adage – as smoothly as Fortune's Wheel."

            "Ah."

            "It was a brilliant idea to plant the suggestion about the mask in his head."

            "The dark elf does not yet know?"

            "We ourselves do not know the extent of his attachment to the girl."

            "And despite assurances on the assassin's part that he has contacted the mercenary he has not."

            "Why, I wonder?"

            "Because he is increasingly enamoured of the dark elf?"

            "He must know that the mercenary could help."

            "There is doubt in his mind regarding the true intentions of the mercenary in any matter."

            "Indeed they are not without founding.  The assassin was the companion of the mercenary for a decade or more."  
            "I doubt the discretion of bringing the mercenary into the gambit."  
            "You believe he might see through it?"

            "He has a ready intelligence that is always undisrupted.  The dark elf is mad, the assassin preoccupied with the mundane, and the girl is young."

            "We have time, much time."

            "Yes, at least this Movement does not require a time or place."  
            "Would we wait for the girl to grow to her prime? In her teens she would conflict with the dark elf."  
            "She would?"

            "As would any at that age.  Any human, any creature, when they begin to grasp the joy and the pain of living."

            "Would it destroy him?"

            "Eventually.  He is afraid of it, when he is of mind."

            "Send for the mercenary, then."  

            "No, we must plant information."

            "He could see the duplicity of that."  
            "But he would be curious."  
            "Agreed.  I choose this task."  
            Light flared for a moment in the face of one, eyes shaded however by heavily embroidered arcane robes, the mouth with the ascetic smile of the Magician.

**

            It was always a little disconcerting yet gratifying to find this particular face of Zaknafein, whenever it occurred, but today it was somewhat inconvenient, considering the amount of work he had to do.  Besides, he had only returned to his room to try and locate a missing part of the paperwork that he had set himself up to finish today, what with the strange influx of cases resulting from wrongful litigation, or something like that, not that he really understood what was happening.  Still, a job was a job, and he didn't really care why the person had to be killed, just how much they were charging him to kill said person.

            The dark elf was lounging on the bed like a lazy panther, a sultry, inviting smile on his lips, the eyes predatory, hair in a silky, decadent mane over his shoulders.  Clothing was non-existent, and the assassin's pulse began to quicken.  Why this face at this time? The others were more easily ignored (if one could in fact try and ignore a psychotic dark elf)…

            He rather pointedly averted his eyes from the elf, instead scanning his table for the papers.  If he recalled correctly, there was a watermark on one in the shape of some weird deformed beetle… and there was a soft, hungry moan from the direction of the bed.  Entreri bit his lip.  Deformed beetle, deformed _beetle_ – where the hell was that paper? Definitely had to find it soon, before the growing tightness in his pants decided to take control of his mind…. Another moan, louder this time, and he had to bite his lip, reminding himself a little desperately that he had a lot of work to do, and he was not going to change his schedule for the sake of anything.

            Shuffling hurriedly through the papers on the table, he noticed with detached bemusement that his hands were shaking a little, though not from fear or any related emotion.  He nearly let out a sigh of relief when he found the papers, something about a twenty-thousand-dollar contract that he only barely managed to skim through before he felt arms encircle him from behind and heat press at him, teeth nip at his neck, something extremely suggestive in the dark elven tongue muttered into his ear, which, unfortunately, he could understand.  

            "Zaknafein… can we do this later?" Entreri attempted to pry the arms off him in panic, but only managed to stop their wandering.  The heat behind him started to rub against his body.  

            "No."

            "I don't have time to play Lovers now."  
            "You live forever.  You have all the time you want."  
            True, but still… "Not now…"

            And he'd half-expected it, but was still shocked when he felt a point of metal at his throat.  Zaknafein had reached rather philosophically for one of the assassin's several throwing knives.   

**

            They were coming back from a completed, somewhat complicated job that had required at least two people, and Entreri could tell from the sternly tied hair that Zaknafein had, without warning, changed faces again, and as usual he wondered what had precipitated it.  Not the blood or the kills, or the ebbing adrenaline, or the distant soup of smells from the sleeping streets… there should be a trigger somewhere, but Entreri found he was a little too tired to care, so he attempted to ignore it.

            Zaknafein didn't say anything until they entered an alley, and Entreri picked a beggar to kill and heal his wounds.  The assassin habitually watched him out of the corner of his eyes, but all the elf was doing was staring disdainfully at the scattered, weathered cardboard boxes that formed the shelter of vagrants, and the nearly overfull garbage cans from which the effects of Calimport's famous heat on their contents could be divined.  

            Well, if he wasn't going to say anything… Entreri stood up from the drained corpse and nodded to Zaknafein.  "Come on.  We're nearly home."

            "Home?" Zaknafein rolled the word around his mouth, enunciating it with exaggerated, cold precision.  "This is not… home."

            "Uh, right.  Back to headquarters then."  Entreri started off down the alley, his shoulder plates itching at the idea of having a highly trained warrior behind him, but from the sounds of the footsteps, Zaknafein was just following.  Now, if only the elf would stop talking with the air of self-righteous condemnation that Entreri often found in the various Hierophants of the churches in Calimport…

            Zaknafein snorted.  "So much of your city resembles the Braeryn of Menzoberranzan.  It can never be home."

            "Then what is home to you, anyway?" Entreri said sharply, instantly regretting it after.  He knew better than to provoke Zaknafein, but he was tired and the sun was annoying, especially when wearing armour and a cloak.  Why was he wearing a cloak anyway? He _had_ to be crazy… oh yes, it was magically enchanted.  The things one did to gain an edge in a fight – not that it helped much against his current companion.

            "Home?" Zaknafein asked, as if suddenly bewildered at the question.  Entreri looked back quickly, but the elf hadn't changed faces, and besides, he only looked thoughtful.

            "Yes… where you'd stay, feel safe?"

            "Then Menzoberranzan cannot be 'home', if you say.  Nor can this place."

            "Why not? Calimport is much safer than your Dark Elf city," Entreri contended.  "Sometimes I get nightmares where I'm stuck there forever."

            "Menzoberranzan does not hold as many dangers to a dark elf noble as it would to a human."

            "Right… explain the high death rate and the matriarchal system then."

            "Is it any different from your species' death rate and your patriarchal system?  Look at your women.  Even in positions of power they continue to be defined by male standards.  Is it that much different… from the Dark Elves?"

            Entreri was about to reply sarcastically that at least the patriarchal leaders did not torture people for fun, but remembered several unpleasant tales he had heard just a few months ago and stopped short.  "Well, our attitude to other races…"

            "Is either patronising if they are inferior, or fearful and untrusting if they are not.  It is very much the same."

            "Your point being?"

            "I do not understand the problems you surfacers have with us Dark Elves sometimes."

            "Maybe the way you tend to kill us if you set sight on us."

            "As you people would, or try to, if it was different."

            "Uh, the way you treat your children?"

            Zaknafein sneeringly pointed at one of the random huddles of cloth that they passed, that coughed at intervals, painful, high pitched coughing, a sick child.  "How do you treat yours?"

            "At least some of ours are loved when they're born," Entreri retorted.

            "Did your mother love you, human?"

            Entreri bit his lip, frowning.  He _really_ did not want to talk about that, not here, not now, certainly not with Zaknafein in his current mood, so he shut up, hoping the injured silence would draw an appropriate response.  As it was, Zaknafein snorted, probably smirked, and continued, unfortunately.

            "Silence is not an answer, but it would suffice."  The elf waited, but Entreri refused to be baited, and so he continued.  "There are, I would agree, somewhat higher bars of social inequality, but not in all Dark Elven cities, yet with the precision and prejudice of any Dark Elf you humans continue to label, to stereotype, to judge.  Like the halflings, the dwarves… all intelligent species."

            "We are all the same, I would think, disgusting as that would sound." Zaknafein chuckled low for a moment, a rich, almost companionable sound unless one could pick up the steady undercurrent of vicious mocking.  "So there is no home for me, anywhere, not in death or in life.  Nowhere that I would feel like I fit, or feel comfortable."

            At least, Entreri thought, the elf was being lucid, even if it was depressingly lucid.

            "Am I a fool for feeling so?" Zaknafein inquired suddenly, though from the rhetorical air he could have been addressing the grimy, broken pipes to their left for all that the assassin knew.

            "No," Entreri said, deciding to swallow this bait.  "I don't think you are a fool, Zaknafein."

            "For wanting something I cannot have?"

            "It's part of the nature of living, of knowing.  The more you know of either the more you desire."

            "What do you think of the issue, then?"

            _With you, I think I'd always have the idea, the feeling, of 'home'?  Do you find that strange, contemptible, Dark Elf, that I can want to be with you so much?  Or so very 'human'?  _Entreri smiled, a little bitterly.  "Nothing.  I'm far too tired to think of this now."

**

            "_Vendui, abbil_!" 

            There was only one creature alive who could address him cheerfully with that particular dark-elven term, and yet have a voice that could bring out all its ironic elements of untrustworthiness and cynical paradox, and that was one of the last people he really wanted to talk to at the moment.

            Looking up from the paperwork sharply, Entreri scanned his study.  Still nobody… there was only the carefully filed books and papers and the neat desk, maps and a gorgeously framed mirror.  Entreri needed absolute order to think on things he did not want to think about, and lately, order was somewhat lacking, what with Zaknafein's naturally disorderly presence.

            "Jarlaxle? Where are you?"

            "A magical voice communicator.  I am actually in Ched Nasad at the moment.  How are you?"

            "Fine except for the detail of which I tried to tell you about.  You certainly took your time replying."

            "I only discovered it two hours ago," Jarlaxle said cheerfully.  It was extremely disconcerting listening to the mercenary's voice coming out of nowhere. "The mailing system in the Underdark is somewhat unreliable.  Your messenger actually had gotten eaten by various monsters some ways from Menzoberranzan, and his remains were found much later by a patrol that, luckily enough, had a Bregan D'aerthe-paid Master leading it."

            "Ah damn." Entreri sighed.  "And I invested a lot of money in his equipment, too."

            "They were very interesting.  But not helpful, I am afraid, against deep dragons."

            "Of all the things to run into! Aren't those things extinct?"

            "Certainly not.  I have one has a friend."

            "You define most people as friends, even your enemies," Entreri sighed.  "For you, the word acquires a whole new meaning."

            "Oh?"

            "You're not paying attention, are you?  You always say that when you're thinking of a way to change the subject."  
            "Your insight is always refreshing, Entreri."  The elf was definitely laughing at him now.  Entreri had no idea why Jarlaxle always seemed to find him so funny, even when he wasn't even _being_ funny…

            Well, if the mercenary wasn't going to make any attempt to change the subject… "Did you think about the… problem involving Zaknafein?"

            "It is only natural that torture in the Abyss would lead to insanity, though I found it quite curious how he ended up with a child.  That speaks of magical intervention."

            "I haven't managed to find out anything about Sam's past, or who did that to her.  Her directions were misleading – they actually just led to a bear's cave in the middle of Cloakwood forest."

            "I could try… but my Surface contacts are somewhat rusty.  In any case, I believe we could get them to separate… if you want to."

            "Why wouldn't I?"

            "Do you want an insane warrior around you all the time, Entreri? And a dark elf at that! You used to get nervous around _me_, and, sadly to say, I am nowhere near Zaknafein's level of skill."

            "Can't he be cured?" Entreri ignored the last bit of that statement.  It didn't take weapons skill to be dangerous… and Jarlaxle, in his own way, was far more dangerous than Zaknafein could be. 

            "I would not think so," Jarlaxle sighed.  "I know of several victims of prolonged torture.  They are never truly… cured, if you wish to use that word.  At least now part of the time he is a little harmless girl, yes?"

            "Well, he threatened to kill me if I didn't ask you about it…"

            'That is not the same as whether or not he can be separated.  He only asked you to contact me about the issue, did he not?"

            "Yes…"

            "Do you love him, Entreri?"

            Entreri blinked, dropped his pen, cursed, picked it up, and placed it carefully in the inkpot, before looking around frantically for something to soak up the blots.  Wishing that Jarlaxle would let go of the question was wistful thinking, though, and he braced himself for some sort of vilification.

            What the mercenary actually _did_ say was somewhat worse.  "Fool that you are." The ever-present amusement, and something that Entreri hated – a trace of sympathy. 

            "What about it?" Entreri snapped.

            "So quickly?"

            "I'm not even going to _answer_ that." Entreri muttered, finding a scrap of cloth.  The documents were never going to be the same again, anyway… not to mention the bits of a word that one of the blots covered immediately made it sound vulgar.  Wonderful.  Now he had to rewrite this before its scheduled afternoon submission to a merchant Prince.  Another annoying thing about the brave new world was that _far_ too many things were required written documentation.

            "But you already have," Jarlaxle said, sweetly and irritatingly, interrupting his neutral reverie.  "Does he love you, human?"

            "Oh, fuck off, Jarlaxle."  

            "On the contrary, I believe it's a long time since I've seen Calimport…"

            "Yes?" 

            "So I think I'd pay you a visit.  This sounds far too amusing to miss."

            "Can't you just get someone to come here and separate him?"  Entreri felt his heart start to plummet to his boots.

            "I will not be in your way – Bregan D'aerthe still has its headquarters."

            "Abandoned."

            "It can be restored."

            "The lawyers?"

            "Can be killed."

            "That may not be a very good idea, attractive as it may seem…" Entreri said warningly.

            "I was only joking.  We have our own lawyers," Jarlaxle chuckled.  "And for fun, I actually half a decade disguised in Baldur's Gate University.  Guess why."

            "Don't tell me… _you_ have a law degree?" Just as he'd thought the world couldn't get worse…

            "You sound so disbelieving.  And I legitimately graduated.  With honors, I might add." 

            "I'm not that surprised, actually," Entreri sat down, leaned back, and buried his face in his hands.  "When I'd first heard of the profession, I thought it was made for you."

**

            Entreri found Zaknafein, oddly enough, on the roof of the building, talking to himself.  The sun had set, and Calimport's heat was replaced with the equally fabled desert cold. 

            "Zaknafein?" Entreri asked curiously, taking care to make enough noise such that the elf could hear him coming.

            Zaknafein turned – now his hair was in a neat, stylish tail, part of his fringe hanging over his eyes mischievously, which had an imperial, aloofly regal expression and a wicked smile.  "Greetings, Artemis."

            "I prefer the name 'Entreri', Zaknafein." Entreri said absently.  "What are you doing?"

            "Isn't being on a first name basis so much more intimate?"

            "I doubt you and I can get any more intimate than we already _are_," Entreri muttered, sitting down carefully next to the elf, unsure as to whether, in Zaknafein's current 'face', he was invading the elf's interchangeable personal space.

            Zaknafein slipped a hand round the assassin's waist, and rested his chin on Entreri's shoulder.  "Can we not?"

            "The Devil you are," Entreri sighed, looking up at the cloudless sky.  Zaknafein was in his one face that was purposefully contrary.

            "And this is Hell?"

            "For some people, certainly."

            "I want it to be." Zaknafein said, in a whisper, breath hot against Entreri's ear.  Entreri turned sharply to look at Zaknafein, but the wicked smile was still there, somewhat disconcertingly so.  "Everything should burn with bright, phoenix flames, or drown in rotting blood."

            "That, is actually rather poetic," Entreri said with a forced grin, hoping to change the mood.  "And I need to tell you someth…" the sentence ended in a muffled yelp as Zaknafein kissed him, then a moan as the elf's hands began to explore his body.  Entreri blinked, then broke the kiss and caught Zaknafein's fingers.  "Hey!"

            "You can tell me something…" Zaknafein whispered, "Later."

            "Now," Entreri insisted, dodging a kiss.  "It's about J…" Zaknafein caught his neck and kissed him, pushing him down in the process and pinning him firmly.  When they came up for air, Entreri complained, "Must so many of our serious conversations either end in sex or you losing interest and going blank?"

            "You humans talk far too much," Zaknafein growled, voice somewhat distorted as he nipped Entreri's neck.  "You would put your voice to better use…" the elf broke off his sentence with a deep kiss, "by screaming for me." 

            Entreri moaned, trying to ignore the demands of his body.  "Jarlaxle is coming."

            "He won't be the only one," Zaknafein muttered, then cursed as he attempted to remove Entreri's belt.  The assassin took the opportunity that the distraction offered to roll himself on top of the elf, mentally noting in the meantime to get someone up to clean the roof.  

            "Just listen seriously!"

            "Make me." Zaknafein smirked, and crossed his arms.  At least he wasn't doing something violent.  

            "Wasn't Jarlaxle c… er, arriving what you wanted?"

            "I want a lot of things," Zaknafein said, looking Entreri over slowly.  The assassin flushed with irritation and other conflicting emotions.

            "Ah what the hell… why do I bother with you people?"

            Zaknafein chuckled wickedly.  "Because I see no element of choice in the matter.  Do you want to move to your room, or do it on the roof?"

            "What about not at all!"

            Zaknafein pretended to consider that, turning his head to the side as if deep in thought.  The gesture, unfortunately, made him look absolutely adorable, especially in close up.  "Did you hear me about the element of choice?"

            Entreri snorted and got up, then walked as quickly as possible to the exit as dignity would allow.  

            "See you later," Zaknafein called, apparently not following, and the elf began to laugh.  There was something mocking and melancholy in the sound, and Entreri had to force himself to leave.

**

            The World… what did it mean?

            All the same, always the same… 

            And you die even while you live. 


	3. Falling or Flying

Author's Note:

Someone bribe me, c'mon! Or I will make Fluff! (threatens)

As it is…. (introduces new Weird Couple!)

Part 3

Falling or Flying

            Entreri had never been so relieved to see Jarlaxle in his whole life.

            As quickly as he could, he ducked behind the rather surprised-looking mercenary, gasping for breath, fingers clutching the mask, which he had accidentally – really accidentally, too – removed from Zaknafein.

            Jarlaxle opened his mouth to ask, then noticed (quite difficult not to, actually) a _very_ enraged Zaknafein charging at him, teeth bared in a snarl, normally expressive eyes carrying the brittle gleam of madness, fingers locked at his sides into claws.  Jarlaxle waited, then sidestepped, kicking at Zaknafein's knee sharply.  The dark elven warrior fell, but rolled gracefully up onto his feet, eyes flickering between Jarlaxle and the hastily-backing-away Entreri.  

            "Really, Zaknafein," Jarlaxle said disapprovingly, though his eyes sparkled with suppressed mirth, "You lose a lot of form when you get this angry."

            Zaknafein hissed, shaking his head in animalistic frustration, then sprang at Entreri.  A little guiltily, the assassin tossed the mask at Jarlaxle, who caught it easily and examined it with bored interest.  Unable to stop his momentum, Zaknafein barreled painfully into Entreri's ribs, cursed, tried to get up, then found himself locked under the assassin, arm twisted behind his back and held by the gauntleted arm in a firm grip.  Entreri had apparently picked up something from the past few months of their relationship…

            Jarlaxle sat down just out of reach, all the bangles and bracelets around his wrists and feet jangling in a cacophony of metal, and tapped the mask next to Zaknafein's nose.  "Are you going to calm down soon, old friend?"

            Zaknafein snarled like a wolf fighting for dominance, feral eyes locked on the mask hungrily, as if starved of something essential to his very existence.

            "How rude," Jarlaxle said, with a mischievous grin, "Dark elves are famous for their gift of dark wit, which is obviously lacking in your current condition…"

            "Uh, you arrived earlier than expected, Jarlaxle," Entreri said hastily, once he felt Zaknafein's muscles tense further at the provocation.  His eyes shot daggers at Jarlaxle – what did you say _that _for?

            "I have a lot of mages working for me," Jarlaxle said expansively.  

            "Weren't you supposed to be in hiding?"

            "And what better place to 'hide' than in a Surfacer city of which Bregan D'aerthe has apparently lost interest in?"

            "It's hardly going to be a stealthy move to go back to your old headquarters, despite what you said about reparations."

            "That is exactly why I will be staying here."

            "_What_!" Entreri yelped, loosening his grip for a moment, and then had to spend a few confused moments re-pinning down Zaknafein as the dark elf warrior, sensing a break in concentration, tried to squirm out to freedom.  

            "You _do_ have spare rooms.  Do not deny it… I checked out your little enterprise here before I arrived.  Despite everything… you have done quite well for yourself, have you not?"

            "But dark elves in the building could ruin…"

            Jarlaxle raised an elegant eyebrow at Entreri, then looked down pointedly at the growling, cursing, struggling Zaknafein, then looked back up again and smiled.  The smile had knives and sharp shiny edges in it.

            Entreri rubbed his temple with his free hand, feeling a headache approaching inexorably.  "Please try not to destroy anything."

            "And I thought the time we spent together built up our trust!"  
            "You make that sound positively scandalous."

            "It is not my doing what you would make of my words, old friend."  

            Entreri snorted, knowing that this conversation was likely to lead nowhere.  "What are we going to do about Zaknafein?"

            "Well… why is this so important to him?" Jarlaxle pointed at the mask.

            "Oh.  I thought you knew…"

            "Unlike Gods, old friend, I am not omniscient."

            Entreri muttered something about that particular remark associated with Bregan D'aerthe's spy network under his breath.  "He uses the mask to exacerbate his mental condition by marking every strange mood swing or 'personality' that he changes into.  Sometimes it gets really… disturbing."

            "Hmmm.  It is quite likely that I did not understand that."

            "He changes into a lot of faces that are basically the same, just with trivial differences like… hair length or… it's a little hard to explain.  But his mood swings get very… extreme."

            "That is very interesting," Jarlaxle turned the mask over in his hands, tracing the delicate mithril designs.  "We all hide behind masks, but it seems that since all of his must have cracked open, he has to use a magical one."

            "Cracked open?" Entreri blinked.  Underneath, Zaknafein tensed further, and then stopped struggling, though his soft litany of dark elven curses did not break.  

            "Everyone does it all the time," Jarlaxle said mildly, "Did you not realize? It is nearly unconscious, how one would act in different ways in front of different people and situations.  None of us ever fully shows who we truly are in front of another.  Perhaps it is because it is inconvenient, or painful, or you believe you will be rejected… building little masks is how everyone learns how to survive."

            "Imagine if all your masks were torn off by torture, or some other means, as well as the ability to make them, so you can feel every little hurt, every bit of pain, and not know how to respond." Jarlaxle indicated Zaknafein with a tilt of his head, the large diatryma feathers sweeping briefly forward in a soft wave.  The mercenary's appearance had not changed from the last time Entreri had seen him, nor had it for years.  

            "How do you know if that is true?"

            "It is mostly theory woven to fit the facts at hand," Jarlaxle said mildly, tone a little reproving, as if at Entreri's defensiveness.  "Zaknafein appears to be in no shape to answer questions, so it is as good an account as any.  Besides, I _have_ known him for a few centuries."

            Entreri ignored the small ugly stab of jealousy.  He was very sure that Jarlaxle was baiting him, for fun, but it was very difficult to keep control of his emotions, especially after nearly being clawed to death by an insane dark elf.  "It seems a little far fetched… you would have me believe that Zaknafein's inner self is a continuously sociopathic individual?" Among other… things.

            "Sometimes I would believe that… that is a very accurate description of most of the Dark Elven race," Jarlaxle smiled.  "Though I would believe that Zaknafein is just reverting to a more intensified version of what he knows best while trying to work out all the harder little masks we keep on to preserve our sanity.  It is probably even harder since he is not himself most of the time."

"So… what do you suggest we do now? If I let him go he's most likely to go after that mask." 

            "You think so?"

            "Well, he's been obsessive about it ever since I gave it to him."

            "Then the answer to that problem is quite simple, is it not?"

            "Jarlaxle…" Entreri shot him a suspicious glance.  "What are you scheming on this time?"

            "If the mask is the problem…" Jarlaxle carefully pressed the pale blue sapphire mounted on one of his rings to the mask, "Then you get rid of the problem."

            Abruptly, the mask caught fire in an intense, magical heat that made Entreri instinctively duck away his face.  His irritated protest at the violence of the destruction was lost in the harsh, broken wail of grief and anguish from Zaknafein, like that of a trapped, dying beast.

**

            "What did you do that for?" Entreri muttered, when they managed to put a now-unconscious Zaknafein into bed.  It wasn't too difficult – Zaknafein had gone catatonic at the sight of the destruction, and had promptly collapsed, as if totally, mentally defeated and exhausted.  Entreri seemed to say that very often in the mercenary's presence – sometimes Entreri wondered if Jarlaxle purposely did the most outrageous things just to keep him off balance.  

            "You asked me to come here to try and 'fix' and separate Zaknafein, yes?"

            "Yes… but…"

            "When you go to a doctor for treatment, do you question him every step of the way?"

            "Going to the corrupt doctors in Calimport is suicidal, and besides, you are _not_ a doctor." Entreri paused, thinking suddenly of Jarlaxle's law degree.  "I think."

            "I was merely using a metaphor, but I see that is not a very effective mode of communication with _you_, old friend," Jarlaxle said merrily. 

            "So what sort of 'treatment' did you have in mind?" Entreri asked sarcastically.

            "After we separate him from the girl? You could try shocking Zaknafein."

            "Aren't you elves innately resistant to lightning…"

            "I meant, startling him to an extent that he might drop out of his state and see the real world for what it is, not what it seems to be."

            "And how do you _propose _that we do that?"

            "An excellent choice of words." Jarlaxle smirked.

            Entreri blinked, replayed the last sentence, replayed it again, and then covered his face in right hand in exasperation.  "I can't _believe_ you said that."

            "It might be…"

            "Amusing.  To _you_."

            "That was not the word I had in mind, but true."

            "I refuse."

            "Well then, just tell him you love him."

            "I… you want me to… _what_? You're enjoying this, aren't you?"

            "Careful, you might wake him up…" Jarlaxle pointed at Zaknafein flippantly.          

            "Right," Entreri lowered his voice irritably, "Firstly, I'm not even sure.  If… if… fine… are you sure about this?"

            "It will be worth a try."

            "I hate it when anyone says that," Entreri growled, "The last time, the man I saw got hit by several delayed blast fireballs that he did not see coming."

            "I see no incendiary spells in the vicinity, I assure you," Jarlaxle said.  The smirk returned in full force.  "Do you have any better ideas, old friend?"

            That was the problem – he didn't.  

            "What if he reacts in… contempt or something like that?" Could he bear it?  "Or doesn't understand?"

            "Then it would be an excellent indication of how well you are doing in this particular relationship."

            Entreri glared at Jarlaxle – that particular sentence had been full of various connotations and implications, all of which were giving him another headache.  "Fine then! When you separate him from Sam. Do you want me to buy gifts and flowers and a wedding ring, while you're at it?" he added sarcastically.  "Or dress up?"

            Jarlaxle chuckled.  "You humans are always so very amusing."

**

            "Okay, it didn't work, now what?" Entreri wrinkled his nose at the heavy scent of burnt flesh, which was just about all that was left of the mages that Jarlaxle had brought with him.

            Jarlaxle frowned, playing with a diatryma feather in one finger, while within the now-destroyed pentagram, Sam grinned and waved happily at Entreri, thinking it was a game.  The mages had vaporized far too fast for her to understand what had happened to them, and, as far as she was concerned, the smell wasn't as bad as the alleys she used to live in for the short while before Entreri had found her and Zaknafein.  

            "I had not anticipated such a strong ward on the binding spell," Jarlaxle admitted mildly.  "Do you have any powerful mage friends?"

            "No!"

            "You do not have to say it like I was asking you for their services," Jarlaxle said, feigning an injured tone expertly as he knelt down next to Sam.  "Are you all right?"

            "Yes… everything felt a little fuzzy for a moment, but it was fine, thanks!"

            "Uh… can we speak to Zaknafein?" Entreri asked, and then added hurriedly, "Though if he's coming out warn us first."

            Sam tilted her head for a while.  "Zaknafein's still refusing to even talk to me.  I think he's sulking."

            Jarlaxle nodded.  "That behavior is distinctly familiar, though I would believe that it is called 'brooding'."

            "Brooding? Isn't that word used to describe hens on eggs?" Sam asked curiously.

            "Where did you learn that from?" Jarlaxle blinked.

            "Well… I learnt from some of your friends that stealing brooding chickens is a great investment despite the fact that they aren't worth much money." Sam beamed at Entreri, who shrugged helplessly when Jarlaxle raised an eyebrow at him.

            "In any case… Zaknafein has been steadily refusing to come out for the past three days," Entreri said irritably, "That's a long time for him to stay on one matter."

            "You should have seen how long he stayed on his son's case," Jarlaxle said dryly.  "On and off about it all the time, especially when he started drinking.  Zaknafein is actually a somewhat obsessive personality."

            "What is he brooding on now, his mask? The son I can understand, barely, but the mask?"

            "Who knows?" Jarlaxle shrugged.  "I can get Kimmuriel up here to take a look inside his head, if you wish.  Perhaps a skilled psionist can get something done about it." 

            "He came with you?" Entreri winced.  Kimmuriel had been distinctly sour on Entreri ever since Jarlaxle had wandered off to look at the Surface world instead of staying on as the leader of Bregan D'aerthe, and still sour when Jarlaxle had returned.  It wasn't even as though the whole hiatus was _Entreri's_ fault – just one of Jarlaxle's more elaborate whims.

            "Oh yes, though he has been passing himself off as an ordinary-looking soldier to your spies," Jarlaxle smiled wickedly.  "You get nervous around mind-readers."

            "I get nervous around _him_," Entreri snorted.  "I don't even know what his problem with me was."

            "He is jealous, I would think," Jarlaxle said mildly.

            "_Jealous_? Of what?"

            "Well, you did spend a decade or so with me."

            "You're making it sound scandalous _again_! All we did was get into trouble… I mean, _you'd_ get _us _into trouble and I never understood how we managed to get out of all of those…"

            "It was fun," Jarlaxle cut in, winking at Sam, who laughed.  

            "I'd bet! Uncle Artemis is really funny!"

            'Uncle Artemis' was currently very upset, and tried to regain control of the conversation, a rather futile gesture whenever the conversation involved Jarlaxle at any end.  "He spent more than twice that amount of time with you!"

            "Some people are _very_ possessive," Jarlaxle said, winking.

            "Oh." Enlightenment dawned a little belatedly on Entreri.  "And all this time I thought… Rai'gy… oh.  Er."

            "I did not actually find out about it until I came back from the fun we had on the Surface to regain leadership of Bregan D'aerthe."

            "Did that have anything to do with how it was supposed to be joint leadership but it strangely enough ended up with you back as the sole head?"

            "I tried to get him to follow along with the plan…" Jarlaxle's 'innocent' face was getting on Entreri's nerves, "But he spent a very long time _convincing_ me how he preferred it otherwise."

            Entreri had forgotten how Jarlaxle's very expressive voice managed to convey shiploads of meanings just on one word.  Currently he made the word 'convincing' sound like the dirtiest thing in the world.

            "I don't think… I want to know," Entreri said hastily.  

            "And another reason why you upset him so much now is because he can't read you."

            "The gauntlet."

            "Exactly."

            "He can't read you either!"  
            "I am different, Entreri…" Jarlaxle grinned. "Or so he said when he…"

Another hasty interruption seemed in order.  "About Zaknafein… really, what do you want to do next?"

            "Use Kimmuriel.  At the most, he might be able to see how Zaknafein got plucked out from the Abyss." Jarlaxle seemed to be stifling a laugh again, from Entreri's extremely clumsy method of changing the topic.

            "If Zaknafein was conscious."

            "I believe consciousness is always a compulsory option in that Plane, Entreri.  It's not fun to play with something which can't feel what you're doing to it, isn't it?"

            Sam spoke up suddenly.  "Will it hurt?"

            "We will try not to let it, Sam," Jarlaxle said in his most reassuring voice.  Not having the experience that Entreri had with the mercenary, Sam calmed down trustingly.  

            "You had better." Entreri said, deciding to sit down.  "Or a lot of people from headquarters may try to kill you."

            Jarlaxle tipped his hat while he signaled to one of his guards.  "Concern from you, Entreri?"

            "As if you'd need it," Entreri snorted, looking at Sam.  "Sorry about this… I'd buy you something to make up for it later.  Do you want cake from that shop you told me about yesterday?"  Sam nodded happily.

            "You _have_ changed," Jarlaxle said curiously.  

            "No, not really," Entreri said solemnly.  "I just know what it is like to be so young and be used, like some object without feelings, or an opinion, or life."

**

            Kimmuriel seemed slightly different, but then, Entreri didn't know better – he had only seen glimpses of Jarlaxle's highest-ranking lieutenant in his stay in the Underdark, and even briefer glimpses after that.  The elf seemed to have some grudge with him, and always refused to even be in the same room.

            Currently he wore rather ascetic-looking mage robes in a strange off-white color.  Under the dimmed light, if Entreri squinted, he could just make out shimmering patterns drawn in nearly the same shade of color on the robe.  Kimmuriel held no staff and wore no adornment now other than a rather weird looking soft brown leather collar with a complicated white gold clasp.  Even staring at it, Entreri couldn't figure out what the design was.  A snake? A wave? A hand… shit, the psionist was giving him a really odd look now.

            "Greetings, Entreri," Kimmuriel said with clipped formality.  He sounded exactly as though Jarlaxle had carefully instructed him beforehand not to call Entreri 'human'.  

            A close examination of Kimmuriel's handsome, fine-boned face currently set in a mask of calm, draped by a waist-long curtain of fine silvery hair, failed to reveal whatever Kimmuriel was thinking, so Entreri just replied with an equally non-committal greeting, then had to hastily cover Sam's eyes when Jarlaxle stood up and kissed Kimmuriel rather enthusiastically.

            "Jarlaxle!" Entreri snapped irritably.  "Aren't you forgetting something?"

            Kimmuriel shot Entreri the Look of Death when Jarlaxle disengaged, smirking like a maniac.  "Hmmm? Oh, in front of children? It was only a kiss, old friend."

            "Not where your hands are going!"

            Jarlaxle laughed.  "Is that all? Very well then…" He stroked Kimmuriel's hair as if playing with a prized pet.  "Maybe later, _mrann d'ssinss_." Kimmuriel smiled at him, and they looked at each other for a very long time.  Entreri cautiously removed his hand from Sam's eyes.  Whatever perverted things they may be talking to each other about telepathically, at least Kimmuriel wasn't projecting.

            Entreri coughed loudly and pointedly.

            "Eh? Oh, I see," Jarlaxle said, looking away and down at Sam.  "Kimmuriel, if you would be so kind?"

            "If you wish," Kimmuriel replied, sitting down gracefully and placing a hand on Sam's forehead, ignoring the way Entreri tensed.  Jarlaxle silently sat down next to him and put his head on the mage's shoulder.

            Entreri watched in silence for a while, and then said, "What is he doing?"

            "Looking around in Sam's mind." Jarlaxle replied, absently rubbing Kimmuriel's thigh through his robes.  "It may take a while."

            "It's a little ticklish actually," Sam said with a grin.  

            "He will pass through the link from Sam's mind to Zaknafein's mind once he finds it."

            "Are you sure you won't be breaking his concentration?" Entreri pointed at Jarlaxle's hands.  

            "_This_ would not break his concentration.  I can show you what will break his concentration, if you like," Jarlaxle said, then chuckled at Entreri's flush.  "Interesting.  Living with Zaknafein still has not cured you of your prudish ways?"

            Entreri snorted.  "I'm surprised you're doing this with Kimmuriel."

            "Hmmm?"

            "Calling him '_mrann d'ssinss_'.  As far as I've known, you always only call your lovers by name, not by any indication of what they might mean to you."

            "Just by not using his name you can tell what our… relationship is like?" Jarlaxle looked so amused that Entreri felt a little less sure.

            "If you treat him differently then that means he's special, to you!" Sam said loyally.  "Like what Uncle Artemis meant."

            "Uncle _Artemis_, eh?" Jarlaxle said wickedly.  "Does Zaknafein call you that, as well?"

            "Whenever he's trying to be annoying," Entreri said, a warning note in his voice.  "I would advise you not to follow suit."

            "Well, if you allow those kinds of liberties… then he is obviously special to you as well," Jarlaxle grinned, "Despite your constant aversion of professing your feelings."

            "What do you know of my feelings?" Entreri said irritably.

            "Ah yes, what do I know indeed, someone who has lived so long and who has survived always by just having the ability to know approximately, by wit, what anyone might do in the next moment."

            "You…!"

            "And after such an outburst of incoherent annoyance, you are no doubt considering initiating a fight, which is one way of getting Kimmuriel to wake up, when you start projecting violent considerations about my person.  Is that not so, Kimmuriel?"

            Entreri forced himself to calm down when he realized Kimmuriel had not only opened his eyes, those eyes were glaring at him.  Jarlaxle smirked and sucked at Kimmuriel's neck just above the collar.

            "What did you find?" Entreri said, ignoring the gesture.  Kimmuriel stared at him disdainfully, and apparently decided to ignore him – instead, he closed his eyes and tilted his head back, baring his neck, lips parting into a soundless moan as Jarlaxle began to use his teeth.  

            Entreri sighed irritably, and picked up the rather fascinated Sam.  "We're leaving.  When you two are finished, the both of us will be in my study."

            Jarlaxle broke off, still smirking.  "We _are_ done." The psionist shot Jarlaxle a disbelieving look, but the mercenary only winked and nodded.  With a sigh, Kimmuriel said tersely, "The link is preserved through a spell cast by either a group of mages or a single, powerful mage.  I did not manage to get much information out of Zaknafein – he is running in a very strange, if somewhat depressing, loop of imaginary events."

            "What loop of events?"

            Kimmuriel sounded as puzzled as Entreri had ever heard him.  "Well in it this place gets destroyed, and he kills you.  Then the loop changes back to the start of the chain of events."

            "_Kills_ me?" Entreri blinked.

            "That is not the strangest thing," Kimmuriel said thoughtfully.  "While he's doing it… he is both laughing and crying."

**

            "So we have to break the link by killing the mages?" 

            Jarlaxle and Entreri were now both alone in the assassin's study, several hours later since Jarlaxle and Kimmuriel had excused themselves from company.  

            "I would think so." Jarlaxle said mildly.  "Kimmuriel said he was not powerful enough to break the link."

            "Sam said she was raised by mages… do you think it was their doing?"

            "Since the child does not remember anything about how to get to the residence of the mages… it is not very helpful, is it?" Jarlaxle leant into the comfortable chair opposite Entreri's.  "Zaknafein could have been more helpful, had he been lucid or talkative."

            "We could try and fix him… before trying to break the seal."

            "And how could you even talk to him to begin that kind of conversation?"

            "I'm sure Sam can still hold a conversation _at_ him."

            "And what would you say?"

            "That if he comes out, I'd give him another mask."

            Jarlaxle snorted.  "Did you not say it exacerbated his condition?"

            "At least if he took the bait I can _talk_ to him face to face."

            "Do you have such a mask?"

            "No, and even if I did, I wouldn't give it to him."

            "Zaknafein does not like to be tricked, Entreri," Jarlaxle said warningly.

            "Funny, I thought you dark elves would be used to it," Entreri replied absently.

            "I have this strange feeling that you are going to regret this," Jarlaxle sighed.  "And what about what Kimmuriel saw?"

            "What about it?"

            "If Zaknafein wants to kill you… he will kill you."

            "Why, concern for my safety?"

            Jarlaxle grinned.  "Of course.  You are, after all, an old friend."

            "Your idea of 'friend' is different from mine.  And as it is… I'm getting a little tired of life," Entreri said, looking out of the window and towards the busy streets below, dirt and beggars trampled under human feet.  "Everything seems so worthless.  Doing the same thing for the rest of eternity… and besides, the current judicial system is unbearable."

            "Worthless? Even him?" Jarlaxle raised an eyebrow.

            Even him? No, definitely not worthless… but it was rather pathetic how the one of the most important things to Entreri right now was rather broken.

            "I'm going to speak to Sam," Entreri said abruptly, and left the room.

**

            Sam was occupied in learning how to throw a knife.  At her height, the only bits of the dummies she could hit were in very painful though supposedly non-lethal areas.  Entreri winced – as did every man in the room – when the next knife found its target.

            "Well princess… it wouldn't kill him, but it sure would stop someone," Jaser, one of the assassins, said with an encouraging grin. 

            "Really? I don't think I want to kill, anyway," Sam said brightly.  "After all if you don't kill them you can keep stealing from them."

            "All right, how much have you lot been teaching her?" Entreri asked, amused.

            "Well, boss…" There were general shufflings of feet around the room. 

            "This is an assassin-run enterprise… not a thieves' guild," Entreri said with mock severity.  "You're giving her the wrong set of morals."

            "Well…" Jaser muttered.

            Entreri allowed himself an apparently cold smile.  "Just go away.  I'd deal with this later.  Right now I need to speak with Sam."

            When all of them left, Sam ran to Entreri and tugged on his breeches.  "It wasn't their fault! Please don't be angry…"

            "Whoever said I was angry?" Entreri said mildly.  Sam blinked at him, and then shook her head in resignation.  

            "Fine! Next time I won't be that worried for them," she said, sitting down on a stool in a huff.  "And you didn't even buy me any cake yet!"

            "Well… I told someone to do it…"

            "I wanted you to buy it for me," Sam said mulishly.

            Now it was Entreri's turn to blink.  "Why?"

            "You said you were going to do it, you should do it."

            "And… is there a difference between cake that I buy, and cake that someone else buys?"

            "Zaknafein says there is."

            Ah… 

            "Well as it so happens, I need to speak with Zaknafein…"

            "He doesn't want to talk to you," Sam said after a brief pause.  "He doesn't even want to talk to _me_."

            "But he's listening?"

            "He normally is, really, even if he says he isn't."

            Okay, that was a disturbing statement.  Did Sam often listen in even when she said she wasn't, as well? "So he won't be interested to find that I may have another of those shapeshifting masks?"

            Sam frowned at him.  "Are you sure that's wise? To give it to Zaknafein? I've heard you complaining about him and that mask.  Many times.  You said it worsened his er, condition."

            "If it's between him having the mask, or him not having the mask and therefore throwing a tantrum of this scale…"

            "And he says he's _not _throwing a tantrum," Sam said, an impish grin turning up on her small face. 

            "Therefore… if he doesn't come out to talk to me then I guess he's not interested in this world or that mask any longer, then."

            Sam had started grinning wider once she grasped what the assassin was doing.  "Uh huh.  It isn't that bad being out all the time, anyway.  Though I sort of miss that other place sometimes."

            "It must be very nice."

            "He thinks it's very boring."

            "Well, maybe he discovered something new about it…"

            "What's more it's beginning to seem as though the mask's more important to him than _you_," Sam said, thoughtfully.  "Which really shouldn't be the case… Uncle Artemis? Did I say something wrong?"

            Entreri had gone silent, closing his eyes and clenching his gauntlet-arm, and there was a harsh sound that could have been a hiss of surprise or a sob.  Sam frowned, then immediately looked extremely embarrassed.  "Oh! Sorry about that… sorry! I wasn't… er…"

            "Expecting to say that."

            Entreri blinked his eyes open – the voice had changed back to Zaknafein's purring baritone.  A hurried greeting turned into a muffled yelp when Zaknafein pressed his mouth to his and forced his tongue inside.  When they broke for air, the dark elf smirked.  "Missed me?" 

            "Everything was a lot quieter when it was only Sam," Entreri retorted obliquely.  The dark elf's eyes were slightly different now – they still had a little of their mad edge, but it didn't seem as broken as before – now they were sharp, calculating… calculating what? Besides, he didn't understand… why did Zaknafein decide to surface then? It was not as though he gave any real details about the new 'mask'…

            "I made myself do some thinking," Zaknafein said mildly, as if he had read Entreri's mind.

            "About what?" Entreri asked, managing to keep the nervousness out of his voice.

            "Things," Zaknafein said irritatingly, and smirked at the assassin's exasperation.  

            "You dark elves!" Entreri threw his hands up in frustration.  "Go and talk to Jarlaxle, he's around here somewhere.  I'm so…"

            Zaknafein hooked Entreri's legs up from behind him, watched with scientific interest as the assassin cursed and fell on his back, and then gracefully straddled him, pulling his wrists above his head.  "I believe Jarlaxle can _wait_."

**

            "You certainly took your time," Jarlaxle said blandly, when they finally located him in the rooms Bregan D'aerthe had commandeered for usage.  Kimmuriel, who was standing behind Jarlaxle, shot Entreri a disapproving glance that the assassin decided to ignore.  

            "It wasn't _my_ fault," Entreri muttered, glaring at Zaknafein, who smiled possessively when the assassin gingerly sat down on one of the chairs in front of Jarlaxle's desk.  "And where did you get so much furniture on short notice?"

"Does it not look familiar?" Jarlaxle waved a hand to indicate the extremely gaudy pieces.  On closer inspection, Entreri realized that a lot of it was from Bregan D'aerthe's old Calimport base.  The realization brought with it a sinking feeling… were they going to stay here for a long time?  
            As Entreri was mulling over this disturbing idea, Zaknafein leaned over his chair and put his arms loosely around his neck.  "I gather your mages were not of any help, mercenary?"

            Jarlaxle laughed, and then began speaking quickly in the Dark Elven tongue.  Zaknafein replied in kind, and the conversation went over his head for quite a while – Entreri wasn't very good at languages, despite his best efforts, and could only understand non-Common if it was spoken slowly.  What was worse, he was quite sure that some of it was about him, considering how Jarlaxle's eyes kept darting down towards his in amusement, and Kimmuriel's cheek seemed to be twitching…

            "If you people are going to speak in a language I do not understand, I see that there is no need for my continued presence," he said curtly, and attempted to sit up.  Zaknafein pushed him back down, chuckling deep in his throat at the assassin's hiss of pain.  

            "Be patient, Artemis," he said with mock solemnity.  

            "Patient?" Entreri snapped.  "While you might go into a relapse, or into your odd moods, or go out of control…"

            "But I will not be leaving you this time," Zaknafein said neutrally, tracing a line down Entreri's neck with a finger.  "That was what I had been thinking about."

            Although that should not have been very comforting… considering what Kimmuriel had seen in Zaknafein's mind… somehow, it was.

--

Notes and References:

_Mrann d'ssinss_: (male) lover


	4. Most Important

Part 4

Most Important

            "Any progress?"

            Zaknafein shrugged.  "His technique is improving, but he insists on keeping several bad habits.  Many fighters who believe themselves of unsurpassable standards are most resistant to blunt teaching." 

            Artemis Entreri, premier assassin of Calimport, looked up from his prone position at the two dark elves scrutinizing him and wished he were dead.  It wasn't the first time, either – training with Zaknafein was simply a long, arduous process of discipline, quick lessons, and _very _painful fights.  It had come to the point where he'd wondered whether Drizzt's famous accounts of his life growing up in Menzoberranzan had been embellished over  time in the dark elven ranger's mind – surely the elf he'd fought intermittently over the years until they'd decided to simply ignore each other couldn't have beaten the one currently poking at his bruised ribs with a booted foot.  Drizzt had not been _this_ frightening as an opponent.

Or perhaps the old warrior had been keeping back some of his skill in Drizzt's training – young as he was, Drizzt would not have known if Zaknafein had been holding back, and confidence was an important part of a good warrior's psyche.  To fight someone who seemed supernaturally undefeatable on first contact – and have said someone as his only opponent for years - could have had dangerous consequences, and Zaknafein might have 'let' Drizzt 'win', a few times.

            On the other hand, Zaknafein considered Entreri 'old enough' to learn in whatever way he thought best.  And Entreri was definitely 'old enough' to know when someone was purposefully not doing his best.

            "Do not be too hard on him," Jarlaxle said, with a wicked, somewhat patronising grin, "He _is considered quite skilled for his kind, resistant or not."_

            Zaknafein glanced up at Jarlaxle accusingly.  "You were his companion for a time.  He could have learnt _something."_

            "I do not believe he can _afford my teaching," Jarlaxle grinned.  "And yet here you are, a better teacher than I, offering your services for free.  I do not know about you, old friend, but such generosity grates on my spirit."_

            "Jarlaxle…" Entreri managed, though due to the fact that all the air had just been kicked out of him a few moments ago, the warning only managed to sound like ineffectual gasping.

            "Everyone changes, mercenary." Zaknafein said, extending Entreri a hand and hauling him none-too-gently to his feet.  

            Jarlaxle chuckled, his gaze intense.  "And you not at all?  To think just a week ago you were akin to a bloodthirsty, rabid creature…"

            Zaknafein simply stared at him coldly, jaw working nearly imperceptibly, as if considering certain rather violent options, so Entreri quickly intervened before anything could turn ugly and the ever-present-in-the-mind Kimmuriel showed up.  "Jarlaxle… why did you come in, anyway? You've never, er, checked in on these training sessions before."

            "Is concern for the welfare of my old friend not enough reason?" Jarlaxle feigned hurt, winking at him.  Zaknafein growled deep in his throat, making Entreri wince mentally. 

            "Jarlaxle, can I speak with you privately for a moment?" Entreri said, as calmly as he could.  "Zaknafein… I'd be back soon."

            "Fine," Zaknafein said, turning his back on the both of them.  The ice in his tone was extremely biting, and Entreri had to bite down a sigh.  

            Once outside, in the corridors, and more or less out of dark elvish senses, Entreri turned on Jarlaxle.  "What in the Nine Hells was _that for?"_

            "What was?" Jarlaxle asked innocently.

            "You were provoking him!"

            "I always provoke him," Jarlaxle said mildly, "And he always _gets_ provoked – but except for one instance I can think of, he never acts on it.  Not… normally."

            "Was that what it was? A test?"

            "You could call it that," Jarlaxle said enigmatically.  Entreri forced his own not-inconsiderable temper down.  Jarlaxle had only ever found Entreri's occasional outburst of temper – whenever directed at himself – amusing, nothing more.

            "Don't you think it's a _good sign that he's normal?"_

            "More or less."

            "What do you mean?"

            "I _normally charge for information, you know," Jarlaxle said, grinning merrily at the increasingly frustrated assassin.  "Though I believe I would waiver the fee due to our long-standing friendship."_

            "Just spit it out."

            "What a crude term for my distribution of such gems of wisdom.  Well then… Zaknafein is not above acting what he believes others expect of him, so they do not ask him too many difficult questions, nor has he ever been."

            "What…? So you mean… nothing changed?" Entreri asked, greatly disappointed.  And he'd actually thought that… destroying the mask actually jerked Zaknafein a little out of his self-destructive mire.

            "I am not quite sure of that," Jarlaxle said mildly, "Since Zaknafein is a dark elf who has seen various types of battles, he knows quite well what psionist's touch feels like, and he is extremely likely to get upset with Kimmuriel if Kimmuriel tried anything on him."

            "Didn't Kimmuriel try to 'speak' with him the last time?"

            "Hmmm.  Despite what you might have thought of that endeavour… Kimmuriel was actually rather rudely routed from Zaknafein's mental space.  He was quite embarrassed about it."

            "A psionist of that power?"

            "Oh yes.  Even a normal person, with adequate training, willpower or determination, can prove quite harmful for a psionist to try and manipulate or communicate with, actually." Jarlaxle smirked.  "You learn a lot when a psionist takes you as a _master_."

            Entreri grimaced at the obvious innuendo.   "So we can't use your pet mage to find out anything concrete."

            "In a nutshell – yes, which is why we have to rely on other methods."

            "And you would suggest…?"

            "I was going to see if he was still anything like his old self," Jarlaxle said as soothingly as he could, which immediately raised Entreri's hackles.  "Nothing very extraordinary."

            "If you hurt him…"

            "My, my, has it come to this extent already?" Jarlaxle pulled at his chin in an outrageous display of… knowing.  It was incredibly annoying.  Said temper outburst was beginning to bubble upwards.

            "What extent?" Entreri said, pretending at puzzlement.  

            "You two act like a married couple.  In a non-Dark Elven definition, of course."

            "I knew you were going to say that," Entreri muttered.  "Of late, you have grown over-fond of banal human phrases."

            "I find you humans extremely interesting," Jarlaxle said, tipping his hat with mocking courtesy to Entreri.  "This is one reason why I actually bothered to come all this way to help you, despite the danger, the inconvenience and the fact that I make a lot more money staying in the Underdark instead of playing around in the Surface."

            "I was wondering about that," Entreri sighed.  "Considering you did not even talk about compensation.  In any case, what we are…"

            "Is none of your business," Zaknafein's voice appeared, somewhere behind his head.  Entreri blinked, tried to turn around, but was stopped by the arms encircling his waist from behind possessively, and the hard, slithering rasps of chainmail pressed into his back, Zaknafein's scent of metal, leather, sweat and something darkly, rather indescribably attractive.  "Mercenary."

            One day, Zaknafein's – or even Jarlaxle's, on occasion – habit of walking around in a cat despite wearing armour was going to give Entreri a heart attack.

            "Ah, greetings, Zaknafein!" Jarlaxle said, unperturbed.

            "I grew tired of waiting," Zaknafein said, his voice now apparently calm.  "If you let that mercenary talk for as long as he wants to you will never be able to get anything useful done."

            Entreri could actually feel the tension, at least that emanating from Zaknafein – his grip tightened, until it nearly became uncomfortable.  Jarlaxle seemed to exude a good-natured-ness which was almost choking.  

            "I see I am interrupting your training…"

            "About time," Zaknafein muttered, just barely audible, but the rather rude remark was ignored blithely by Jarlaxle, who continued to take his leave in a dignified and suitably flowery manner.

            Zaknafein watched Jarlaxle coolly until the other dark elf was out of sight, before releasing Entreri, then he stalked back to the training hall.  "Whenever you're ready," he threw over his shoulder curtly.  

            Entreri wasn't sure, but he could just detect the faint hints of jealousy in the dark elf's stiff stride.

**

            "What do you think?" Jarlaxle asked Kimmuriel, once he located him within Bregan D'aerthe's makeshift headquarters.  The psionist was seated cross-legged on a divan in the even more makeshift library, where due to the current lack of existing shelves books were piled into unsteady towers, and parchments strewn into a corner, strange shadows thrown onto the stone walls by the light of a single candle.  Kimmuriel was apparently deep in meditation, but he replied, without opening his eyes.  

            "I think your friend is constructing a mask of his past self… as much as he can remember."

            "Which is not the smartest thing he can do," Jarlaxle mused.

            "May I ask why not?"

            "Because everyone changes," Jarlaxle felt mild pleasure at reusing Zaknafein's words in an appropriate but rather dissimilar context.  "And I believe he will soon find how painful it is to keep up masks that so obviously do not fit.  After all, today's person will always be slightly different from the one yesterday, and Zaknafein is trying to build something lost a long time ago, even when counted in years for an elf."  
            Kimmuriel frowned.  "I do not believe I understand.  Is he so different from when he was… last alive?"

            "I would think so," Jarlaxle said, pacing, brow furrowed in thought.  "Sharper, and a lot less inconstant, slower to like or befriend.  This matter is most intriguing."

            Kimmuriel sighed, causing raised eyebrows from Jarlaxle and a pause in his stride.  "Is something wrong, _mrann d'ssinss?" _

            "I had hoped we would not remain long on the Surface," Kimmuriel admitted reluctantly.

            "You do not like the Surface?" Jarlaxle grinned. 

            "You know I do not," Kimmuriel said, neutrally.

            "You are quite free to return to the Underdark before me," Jarlaxle said, glancing at the parchments, to make his point.  "What with all the work generated nowadays, Bregan D'aerthe would do well to have its chief lieutenant close at hand."

            "Bregan D'aerthe," Kimmuriel slipped to his feet with elegant grace, "Would do a lot better to have its _Head close by."_

            "Oh really," Jarlaxle asked, playfully, approaching Kimmuriel and cupping the mage's face gently with a hand, "Or is it just your own wish?"

            "I…" Kimmuriel slid his arms around Jarlaxle's neck as the other elf kissed him in a purposeful interruption, moaning as their tongues entwined, Jarlaxle's hand sliding down to encircle the back of Kimmuriel's neck, above the collar, with slender, gloved fingers, applying just the faintest of pressure on their tips as a reminder.  

            Jarlaxle chuckled at the sight of Kimmuriel's face, flushed with passion in the infrared.  "I think that answers the issue very well." He hooked his fingers in the collar and used that to draw Kimmuriel closer, and then whispered, "But I feel that you have other… pressing interests at the moment."

            "Please…"

            "Hmmm?" Jarlaxle slipped his other hand into Kimmuriel's robes, stroking, caressing, pausing briefly when Kimmuriel's hands tried to slide down to do their own exploration.  "Don't move."

            "No! Don't stop…"

            "Well then… I think I will play a little longer with you today before I take you." Jarlaxle's hand continued its frustrating movements.

            "Aah… do not torture me, _please…"_

Jarlaxle chuckled, feeling the psionists' own delicate hands fist in his cloak, deciding to take entertainment where he could find it.  "Beg me."

**

            "I think we should search Cloakwood more closely," Entreri said during breakfast.  Zaknafein – or occasionally, Sam – and Jarlaxle had taken to joining him for the meal.  Kimmuriel declined, preferring to stay as much as possible in the Bregan D'aerthe areas, which were darkened more or less to the elf's liking.  

            "You do not trust your scouts?" Jarlaxle asked, after a mouthful of toast.

            "I trust them, but they are more used to the cities, and may have overlooked something."

            "Or they could have been tampered with," Jarlaxle suggested.  

Sam looked up and nodded.  "Those wizards were definitely powerful.  They had… lots of wards and monsters and things."

            "As the lady says," Jarlaxle nodded, causing Sam to blush a little at her 'title'.  "We might have more luck."

            "But you might not have as much luck as your scouts," she pointed out.

            "I would like to think that your 'Uncle Artemis' and I learnt something useful in the time we spent wandering the wildernesses," Jarlaxle grinned at Entreri's scowl on _his title.  "And we might just bring a mage of our own along."_

            "Oh no," Entreri grimaced.  "You do know that Kimmuriel will hate me forever for this?"

            "I did not say I would _bring Kimmuriel," Jarlaxle said innocently.  "But of course if he wishes to volunteer…" _

            Jarlaxle's feigned innocence was beginning to get on Entreri's nerves.  

            "You _know he's going to volunteer."_

            "Actually I had other mages in mind," Jarlaxle said, with a wicked grin.  Entreri rather doubted the truth of that statement… for a moment.  Before he realized – rather obviously – that Kimmuriel _was_ 'listening' in to their conversation, and just by keeping other mages 'in mind', the psionist was definitely already going to get jealous, by the very least.  

            Sometimes Jarlaxle was quite frightening.  The most irritating form of manipulation, in Entreri's opinion, and also the most upsetting, was the unavoidable, in-plain-sight one which at the same time did not generate blame on the manipulator.  The type that changed your mind, without using magic – just one of the various forms that Jarlaxle had mastered.  He would plant seeds in your mind, until you thought the ideas that formed were your own. 

            "All right, bring whoever you wish," Entreri said, defeated.  "When do you want to leave?"

            "Whenever it is convenient.  Though Cloakwood, I believe, is quite a distance from Calimport.  You may have to charter a fast ship."

            "For those of means, there is another type of ship." Entreri said mildly.

            "Ah, the Floating Galleons?"

            "Those beautiful hovering ships just to the side of the harbour?" Sam chimed in.  "They have really beautiful sails! And the mages around them all look so… rich; I wonder why they rent out their ships!"

            "Just where have my employees been taking you? Entreri asked suspiciously.  "You can't normally get into proper sight of those things."

            "To stay rich, you generally have to work in some way or another, my lady," Jarlaxle grinned, ignoring Entreri.  

            "Listen to an old hand," Entreri murmured.  "And we might have less trouble taking dark elves onto one of those than onto a normal ship."

            "Perhaps a few illusions might be in order."

            "On a mage-run ship?"

            "Perhaps I will take one of my psionists along, then," Jarlaxle said, and try as he could, Entreri could find no inflection in that line that said anything about Jarlaxle's true intentions.  "Psionic magic is still quite rare on the Surface, even if its novelty, in the Underdark, is eroding quickly." He winked at Jarlaxle, the barb in his words evident.

            "You're really just as cruel as any other dark elf, in your own way, aren't you," Entreri sighed. 

            "Every dark elf is cruel in some way or another," Jarlaxle said, examining one of his diatryma feathers with detached interest.  "Sometimes I feel it is the way we are.  You might wish to remember that."

            "Why?" Entreri asked, though he knew the answer.

            "Because you are getting far too involved with one of us.  And one can never cleave away from what one is."

**

            Sam, strangely enough, stayed in her form all the way to bedtime.  That was not much of a problem – Sam also slept with Entreri – though just to share warmth and companionship.  Entreri gathered that after having been kept more or less alone in a room for most of her life up till now, she was quite leery of being left alone, even for sleep.  Generally however, around this time, Zaknafein should have taken over… though Entreri did not really mind – at least Sam neither kicked nor spoke in her sleep.

            When asked, Sam shrugged.  "He's angry about something, again."

            "Sulking?"

            "Yeah, I think it has something to do with what Jarlaxle said just now, because he's denying that vehemently."

            "Can you pinpoint what exactly he is upset about?"

            Sam frowned.  "Something about… only being able to change on the surface?"

            "And why is that upsetting?"

            "I don't know," Sam said, rubbing her eyes and yawning.  "Sometimes I don't understand him."

            "Does he know Jarlaxle might have purposefully said that to get a rise from him? I've heard a lot of Jarlaxle's 'philosophies', and half of them contradict each other because he likes saying whatever is needed to be said at certain moments to achieve certain results.  Whether or not he believes in them is a moot point."

            "He says he's known Jarlaxle for a lot longer than you have," Sam grinned sheepishly.  "Actually he's being very rude now, but that's the general gist."

            "I'm not surprised," Entreri shrugged out of his armour to his undershirt and retrieved soft cotton pants from his sparse wardrobe, then walked off behind a screen to change.  When he emerged, Zaknafein, minus chainmail, shirt, boots… and just about everything except pants, was staring out of the window.  A wave of sulkiness seemed to engulf the room. 

            Entreri was far too tired to engage in verbal fencing, so he simply sat behind Zaknafein, put his arms around the elf's waist gingerly, and rested his head against the other's shoulder and closed his eyes.  Zaknafein tensed slightly at contact, then relaxed, and they stayed that way until the assassin began to doze off. 

            "Why do you put up with me?" Zaknafein whispered.  Half-asleep, Entreri nearly missed the line altogether.  As it was, it took him some moments to register the question – then he became quite awake.

            "What do you mean?"

            "Why do you let me stay with you?"

            "It's not like I have a…" Entreri was going to add 'choice', but decided in Zaknafein's current mood, it wouldn't be very diplomatic.

            Before he could come up with a better word, Zaknafein sighed.  "Is that it?"

            "N-no…"

            "I am not going to hurt you." A pause.  "Right now, I do not think that I can."

            Unarmed and unarmoured, Zaknafein could still cause a lot of bodily damage on will, but Entreri hoped he meant it another way.  Besides, Zaknafein had taken the assassin's stammer and hesitation quite the wrong way.

            Staring out over the city, Zaknafein added, "Do you want me to leave? I would appreciate a straight answer.  I have had my share of lies in the Abyss."

            There are different ways of gauging sanity, and Entreri wondered, if, at this instant, all the demons had done was make Zaknafein so aware, so 'sane', that he had by general standards surpassed any definition of madness.  What had they done to him?

            "I… don't want you to leave."

            "Why?"

            "I…" Entreri couldn't say it, couldn't say the words.  His upbringing? His philosophy? But all he could think of was the weakness.  

            An awkward pause later, Zaknafein said, "Well? Is it this?" He reached behind him, casually stroking along Entreri's inner thigh. Rather mortified, Entreri pushed the dark elf's hand away.

            "No!"

            "Really.  I thought you liked our… play."

            He was blushing now, he was certain.  "I… do, but it's not the reason why I don't want you to leave."

            "The jobs?"

            "It's not money either! Zaknafein…"

            "Why are you so patient? Why should you care? I am a dark elf – I cannot change my nature."

            "If this is about Jarlaxle…"

            Zaknafein continued as if he hadn't heard.  "I am not even normal, or alive, or anywhere familiar to me.  Just a demon's toy set free for their amusement.  For anyone's amusement.  I can't even die."

            "What?" Entreri frowned, and a growing, terrible realisation struck him.  "What did you try to do?"

            "It just heals, without even a scar to prove my will.  And even if I died, what then? I will return right where I started.  Right where all dark elves return, no matter how much they try to salvage their soul."

            "Zaknafein…"

            "Every freedom, even the freedom of death, is denied to us.  Does that explain our nature?"

            "Listen to me…"

            "When I seek the arms of sleep, all I see are nightmares."

            "You..!"

            "Maybe this is the dream.  Maybe I am still in the Abyss.  Maybe…" All further speculation stopped when Entreri, finally in frustration, pressed his mouth against the elf's to smother his words. Zaknafein blinked, and then responded, a little grudgingly.  

            "Zaknafein, I…" Entreri looked into the dark elf's eyes, and found he couldn't continue.  "I… it's nothing." Was that a flicker of disappointment, or resignation? "I…"

            "If everything is a dream," Zaknafein said, pulling his head close until their lips were nearly touching, "It does not matter.  As long as _you_ are real."          

            "What did the demons make you see?" Entreri asked quickly, before Zaknafein could orchestrate matters such that they ended up not talking about anything important for the rest of the night.

            Zaknafein flinched backwards, and his expression became taut, wary.  "See?"

            "I know they did something to you," Entreri said quietly.  "And it can't be physical, because you probably don't respond well to that.  It can't be verbal, because you have a tendency to ignore whatever you don't like to hear.  So they must have made you see something.  What did they let you see?"

            Zaknafein looked away, face twisting, as if at some terrible memory.  

            "Zaknafein?"

            "I do not want to remember," the elf snapped, finally.  "Are you satisfied?_ I do not want to remember!"_

            Entreri rather doubted Zaknafein had a choice in the matter.  "Whatever it was – was what drove you mad, wasn't it?"

            His earlier remark about Zaknafein's ability to ignore whatever was spoken to him came back to haunt him.  The dark elf was rather pointedly lying down on his side of the bed, ignoring him.  That in itself was an answer, of sorts.

            "Demons are adept at illusions," he offered, as a form of consolation.

            Zaknafein kept silent, until finally Entreri, giving up, slipped under the blankets to try and sleep.

            Then Zaknafein murmured, "It was no illusion."  But however Entreri attempted to get him to speak any further on the subject, the dark elf simply closed his eyes, and to all appearances – fell asleep, tumbling into darkening dreams.

**

            Maybe with you, I can find some consolation.

            But I will never have peace.

**

            The next day, Entreri waited until Zaknafein turned back to Sam, and his thieves had taken her off to whatever dastardly enterprise they normally embarked on, before relating the night's conversation to Jarlaxle.  Probably against his best interests, but Entreri had admitted to himself, a long time ago, that Jarlaxle was far smarter than he could ever become. 

            Jarlaxle, despite all appearances, was a very good listener, and when Entreri had finished, he leaned back in his chair and seemed to think about it.  Either that or he was talking to Kimmuriel telepathically….

            The situation was just beginning to make Entreri feel nervous when Jarlaxle decided to speak up.  "So what are you going to do?"

            "I was hoping you could suggest something," Entreri said wryly.  "If he doesn't want to talk to me about it there is very little that I _can do."_

            "There is something else, is there not?"

            "What?"

            "You are afraid that if you manage to change whatever he has become back to 'normal' – he might try to kill himself, and this time, it would work."

            Entreri winced.  Jarlaxle's verbal arrow had found its mark.  "Well, what then?"

            "I have always felt that one's life should be one's own to dictate," Jarlaxle said mildly.  "Let him do whatever he wants with it."

            "Like you aren't above assassination," Entreri muttered.

            "Everything must be within limits," was the mercenary's blithe reply.  "And of course, they were interfering in how I wished to dictate my own life."

            "You just want me to let him kill himself?"

            "Why not? He is already doing it."

            "Surely, with enough help…"

            "Perhaps you are just being optimistic," Jarlaxle said rather patronisingly. 

            "Are you going to help me find out what he 'saw', or not?" Entreri asked irritably.

            Jarlaxle seemed to ostensibly think about this, gloved fingers tenting in front of his nose.  "I do concede to a certain degree of curiosity.  Though despite what Zaknafein claims, whatever it was could just as likely have been illusion."

            "Do you think it's about Drizzt?"

            "No," Jarlaxle said, rather surprisingly.  "Zaknafein would know his son well enough such that he should be able to tell from an illusion – and of course, he would be expecting illusions about Drizzt – or his past life, enough to disregard them.  It is rather hard to psychologically torture an old Dark Elf, since torture is part of our… society.  Therefore, it must have been something else, and that makes me very interested indeed."

            "Any ideas how to get around looking at it?"

            "The most direct manner is to talk to my contacts in the Abyss…"

            "You have contacts in the Abyss?" Entreri asked, in disbelief.  Jarlaxle grinned.  Entreri sighed.  "Somehow, I'm not really that surprised."

            "There is, however, the matter of Cloakwood.  Do you want to delay that trip until this matter is resolved?"

            "I would rather have a relatively sane Zaknafein with me on a potentially dangerous trip."

            "But you have been living with the insane one for quite a while."

            "He has been somewhat more 'sane' lately, and I'd like it to remain that way."

            "Do you? You seem to get along much better with the other one," Jarlaxle remarked, with a wink.

            "What do you mean?"

            "Doesn't the other one spend more time with you, pay more attention to you?" 

            "I…" Actually, that hurt, despite sounding as though Entreri was a pet.  "Would rather he got over his pain."

            "In finding out about it – you might worsen it," Jarlaxle mused, but seeing no reaction from Entreri other than that of determination, shrugged.  "Very well, I will see what I can do.  Though on the trip to Cloakwood, do you not think inviting his son along might be a good idea?"

            "Drizzt? Why?"

            "He is, after all, a ranger."

            For some reason, Entreri immediately felt very jealous.  "No! No, I don't think so," He groped for a good reason, "Drizzt doesn't like the both of us, remember? It might prove extremely… inconvenient."

            "If you say so," Jarlaxle said, his eyes twinkling.  

            "How long before your contacts come back with information?" Entreri decided to attempt to change the subject.

            "Well, I have few mages right here of enough power, but I could send a message to those in my Underdark branches."

            "Kimmuriel?"

            "Is not really in any condition this morning to do any difficult summonings," Jarlaxle smirked.

            "Amazing.  Why aren't _you tired?"_

            "It's all a matter of practice and delegation."

            Entreri made a face.  "Somehow, I think I don't _want to know."_

**

            Entreri desperately blocked the first swing with his gauntleted hand, and managed to parry the second, the harsh rings and scrapes of meeting metal ringing in his ears, unnaturally loud in the silence of the circular, cold-stone paved practice hall.  Tightly channelled sunlight shot in through the few slitted windows that broke an otherwise plain, continuous cylindrical wall, lined with the occasional weapons rack.  There was no other furniture – hence, no other distractions.

            Zaknafein shot the gauntlet a disapproving look as he leaped back, disengaging, and easily parrying Entreri's counter-attack.  "You rely far too much on that thing."

            "It works," Entreri panted, barely dodging a thrust, then having to stop a downward swing with both swords, scissoring Zaknafein's blade between them, leaning his weight on his left foot and kicking out with his right.  Zaknafein hit his ankle with the hilt of his other sword, knocking him off balance and onto his back, and the assassin instinctively rolled – a risky endeavour when armed – wincing as a thrust tore through his cloak – though missing him.  

            "What if your gauntlet is cut off one day?" Zaknafein stepped on the cloak, adding insult to injury, deflecting the upward stab with the gauntlet's sword and stomping on the dagger hand.  Entreri snarled, refusing to let go, and managed to parry a wicked stab at his eye.

            "Fighting with one arm? That… does not make much of a warrior…"

            Zaknafein raised his eyebrow at him, then purposefully discarded his left sword, folding his left arm behind his back.  "Would you like to try?"

            "You're… stepping on my wrist…"

            "Well then," Zaknafein mockingly stepped back, allowing Entreri to scramble to his feet, cursing under his breath.  The temerity of the elf!  "Of course, now that I am disadvantaged… I will not play with you any more." With that, Entreri had to parry the bright arc of metal that threatened to slice through his leather armour, while with his sword he stabbed towards the dark elf's face.  

            "Very good," Zaknafein laughed, his eyes becoming fierce, twisting away from the blow, "Now we _fight." His speed seemed to increase as he proceeded to block every attempt of bodily injury that Entreri tried to inflict on him.  How was that possible? Was it because he only needed to focus on one weapon?_

            But… one weapon… and no shield?

            No longer playing? So he had actually been playing… before this?

            Come to think of it, that seemed likely.  Entreri remembered the somewhat more unstable version of Zaknafein being faster, more aggressive – was that the unrestricted version? Training could not take place at that pace, after all – or Entreri would hardly learn anything.

            Seeing the assassin's growing disbelief, Zaknafein merely smirked.  "Watch your _own _defence," he warned, then Entreri hissed in pain as, snake-quick, the sword slid past an attempted parry and stabbed the arm joint on his dagger arm.   As his dagger slipped from nerveless fingers, Entreri raised his gauntlet – too close to parry with his sword – and found to his shock that the single sword had feinted only, and was now pointed at his throat.

            "You're getting better," Zaknafein conceded, as Entreri 'sheathed' his sword into his gauntlet.  "Though you are far too easily distracted.  A warrior with a sword less is still a warrior, and you cannot let your guard down."

            "That hurt," Entreri said accusingly, looking for something to wrap the injury with.

            "Is that not the point of fighting with real weapons?" Zaknafein sheathed his sword, then went to pick up the other one.  Grumbling about Dark Elves and their murderous ways, Entreri  picked up his dagger with his gauntleted hand and went off to look for one of the Headquarters' clerics.

            Zaknafein, now very amused, followed and watched the process of magical healing, then slapped Entreri on the back as the assassin flexed his repaired arm.  "So, did you learn anything, student?"

            "Not to fight with you even if you appear to be disadvantaged?"

            Zaknafein pretended to consider that thoughtfully.  "Perhaps that _might be the most important thing."        _


	5. Only a Dream

Author's note: Massive warning for angst. Heheheheheh.

Part 5

Only a dream

            This position was beginning to get overly familiar.  Winded, bruised, unarmed, and with two dark elves peering down at him with vaguely condescending expressions.  To head off the inevitable and insulting discussions over his head about his swordplay, Entreri asked, "Now what is it, Jarlaxle?"

            "I thought you would be interested to know that my contacts replied," Jarlaxle said innocently.

            "What contacts?" Zaknafein asked, curiously.

            Entreri opened his mouth, closed it, and then shot Jarlaxle a beseeching expression which Zaknafein apparently missed, since he was studying the mercenary – a rather futile endeavour on any account, as Jarlaxle's expressive face could assume whichever emotion at will.  Jarlaxle shrugged.  "From the various branches – since we are doing quite well for ourselves, I thought to send messages inquiring as to how many personnel every branch could send to Calimport.  It would aid in my consideration in reinstating a branch here."

            Zaknafein snorted.  "Did you not get chased out the last time?"

            "We have lawyers now, too," Jarlaxle replied.  "And… I believe oddly enough Calimport has come up with an anti-discrimination rule in their, ah… 'Constitution' that we can use to our advantage."

            "You _know that was put in only to please the halflings." Entreri said, playing along._

            "We have considerably more money than halflings," Jarlaxle replied, then turned to Zaknafein.  "So, old friend, unless you are interested in listening in on our little branch negotiations…"

            Zaknafein helped Entreri up, not bothering to look in Jarlaxle's direction.  "Find me when you finish.  You need to work on your feint."

            Once Entreri and Jarlaxle were relatively out of hearing, the mercenary began to chuckle.  "For an assassin, you have remarkably little ability in duplicity."

            "Assassins kill.  They don't talk in circles," Entreri retorted.  "I'd leave that to you.  And lawyers.  Though I believe now you are one and the same."

            "Hah! You still need to learn that sometimes, a well-placed word is considerably more destructive than a sword, old friend.  That is why I found the ironically-named 'legal profession' so entertaining."

            "What about the reports?" Entreri asked, before Jarlaxle could berate him on the need for diplomacy.

            "They found nothing."

            "Nothing?"

            "Yes, I found that very strange," Jarlaxle said mildly, "Some of my mages actually said the demons they asked seemed to be afraid of something.  And that is truly peculiar, because none of those mages call up anything less than Glabrezu."

            "So I believe Cloakwood has to come first, then.  Perhaps there will be clues there."

            "We have to be doubly cautious," Jarlaxle warned, "If there is something that can scare demons of this rank."

            "Having second thoughts?"

            "No," Jarlaxle said, apparently amused.  "I admit to being very curious about this entire situation."

            "What did Kimmuriel say about it?"

            "He expressed his disapproval," Jarlaxle smirked, "But he insisted on coming along, if I was going.  I _did_ even go as far to order him not to go, since if anything happened he would be my obvious successor, but he… convinced me otherwise.  Though if he is truly unwilling about it, he would prove far too much of a problem than an actual help."

            "Doesn't he know you're playing with him?"

            "This time? Most assuredly – Kimmuriel is quite intelligent, even for a mage.  That makes it all the more amusing."

            "For you, I would imagine." Entreri was actually beginning to feel sorry for Kimmuriel, since, despite popular opinion and his best efforts, Entreri was actually not without a rather battered conscience and a moral code.  But it was not a very healthy thing to put yourself wholly in the power of Jarlaxle – he could be a lot crueler to those fully under his control.  To those outside that kind of power, his manipulation was a lot subtler and tolerable.  Perhaps that was why Bregan D'aerthe, to a certain extent, was a relatively free organisation – most of the soldiers could simply up and leave if they wished to.  It helped him keep what Entreri saw as the dark elf's natural ruthlessness in check, and channel it towards more productive venues. 

            While Kimmuriel – would definitely bear the brunt of it. 

            "He might break one day," Entreri mused.

            "Oh, do not worry," Jarlaxle said merrily.  "I always know exactly what I am doing.  And… whatever I do to him, I always make it somewhat more worthwhile for him to stay."

            This proved even intelligent, powerful mages could be fools.  And besides, Kimmuriel was bound to be extremely upset with this conversation right now, but Jarlaxle seemed supremely unconcerned, adding, "When can you charter a Floating Galleon?"

            "In a day.  This isn't the visiting season, so they're relatively free," Entreri said, automatically – he always kept tabs on the influx of traffic into Calimport.  He was still vaguely worried about Kimmuriel – since although the gauntlet he had would make him technically invulnerable to magical attacks, Kimmuriel, being a very skilled psionist, could actually read his surface thoughts, at the very least.  And being a dark elf, he definitely knew many ways of making one's life miserable without using magic.

            "Do you want to leave tomorrow, then?"

            "All right," Entreri nodded.  "We might as well start as quickly as possible.  I will get an afternoon ship – one of the captains who is in port around that time is my friend, and he is going to leave in Cloakwood's general direction."

**

            Kimmuriel, to all appearances, was studiously doing paperwork on Jarlaxle's desk, seated in the visitor's chair, and did not even look up with Jarlaxle entered with his usual noise.  Jarlaxle closed the door carefully, then walked over to Kimmuriel and looked over his shoulder, diatryma feathers falling just within the psionist's peripheral vision.  They stayed this way for a long time until Kimmuriel caved first, turned around, and said, very politely, "The papers requiring your personal signature are in front of your chair."

            "Why did you not say that earlier?" Jarlaxle asked mildly.

            Kimmuriel grimaced.  "I apologise, but…" He gasped as Jarlaxle yanked hard on the back of his collar, choking him for a moment and jerking his head back.  Long, silvery strands of hair slithered over his gloves, and Jarlaxle distantly admired their silky beauty.

            Leaning close enough so as to enjoy Kimmuriel's scent, Jarlaxle said, "We are leaving tomorrow for Cloakwood, but I suspect you know about that."

            "Yes," Kimmuriel said, as meekly as possible while still being rather obviously upset.  Jarlaxle smiled as he noticed the psionist fighting down his temper.  "I will follow."

            "Actually, seeing how you really do not like the Surface, I have arranged to take someone else with me."

            Kimmuriel turned to try and discern Jarlaxle's expression, shocked, but nearly choked himself on the collar, and sank back into his chair.  "_No! Please…"_

            "You are returning to the Underdark."

            "Master, _please!"_

            "In the meantime, regarding all that paperwork, just sign it yourself, or send word that I am currently away." Jarlaxle said, admiring his handiwork.  Kimmuriel's hands were white-knuckled in their grip on the chair's handles, and his breathing was already irregular – also, he was trembling a little from the strength of his emotion.  Through the link they shared he could definitely sense frustration, despair, jealousy, and a lot of self-mockery – while all Kimmuriel would have been able to sense on his part would be a rather detached air of command.  

            Kimmuriel definitely knew what Jarlaxle was trying to do, but the bait had to be taken.  And since the psionist could not read Jarlaxle's mind, or see Jarlaxle's face, some doubt was beginning to grow, and he was becoming uncertain as to whether or not the mercenary leader really meant what he said.

            "You would create far too many difficulties if you went," Jarlaxle said calmly, jerking the collar back in time to choke off Kimmuriel's desperate pleas and keeping the pressure.  The psionist gasped for air, but didn't take his fingers off the chair to scrabble at the collar – that would be far too undignified.  Jarlaxle let go of the collar, then walked over to his paperwork, leafing through it.  None of it seemed really important enough to require his attention, in any case, except possibly the duergars' propositions.  He rather liked the current leader of their trading community, and Hazek would be insulted if he did not reply.  Perhaps a note to the duergar leader would help him understand…

            "It hurts," Kimmuriel whispered suddenly.  "It hurts when I am not with you."

            Jarlaxle did not even look up.  "I did spend a decade away from Bregan D'aerthe, once."

            "That was before I… we… but it still hurt then, every moment!"

            "I do not spend that much of my time, even now, in your presence."

            "It is not that bad when at least I can _see_ you once a cycle!"

            Jarlaxle waved a hand dismissively.  "A few clairvoyance spells…"

            "That is not the same!"

            "Kimmuriel… I warn you," Jarlaxle looked up, his eyes purposefully cold, allowing a hint of steel into his voice.  "I do not want to hear any more about this."  Kimmuriel immediately kept silent, though his eyes were pleading.  Satisfied, Jarlaxle sat down at his desk and began reading more closely.  He could tell Kimmuriel was definitely not paying attention to the paperwork any longer. 

            It was at least an hour later before Kimmuriel asked, a little timidly, "May I know when you will be back, Master? The schedules may require some revision."

            Jarlaxle let the silence drag on until it seemed as though he was not going to reply, then said vaguely, "It depends."

            Kimmuriel was obviously not happy with this answer.  "At least _tell me who is going with you… please." The politeness was becoming extremely forced._

            Jarlaxle raised an eyebrow at him.  "You already do know.  Zaknafein, Entreri, and one of our mages."

            "It will be dangerous…"

            Jarlaxle interrupted tersely.  "I know.  That is partly why I am _going_."

            Kimmuriel was silent for about another hour or so, probably wondering whether Jarlaxle was toying with him with the intention of allowing him to go in the end, or just toying with him but meaning every single word, which was much worse.  Jarlaxle himself was considering several mischievous avenues from which to take this amusing situation further, but kept them to himself, his pen dancing over a note to Hazek in his own, unique, flamboyant script.

            The one which had the highest potential for fun was actually the cold shoulder, come to think of it… 

            "Do you know what you will be looking for in Cloakwood?" Kimmuriel asked, trying a little transparently to be circumspect.  The psionist was not at his best when this upset.

            "Trouble, I would suspect," Jarlaxle said blithely.  Finishing off the note, he started on the rest of the papers.  Hazek was likely not to get that upset now – after all, the duergar was old enough to take things as they came, in time.  Kimmuriel seemed to have forgotten that adage, and now seemed as flustered as a youth.  

            Another hour of hurt silence, and he was finished.  Kimmuriel looked up sharply when Jarlaxle rose and stretched.  "I am going to sleep," he informed the psionist as blandly as possible.  "It has been a long day… and tomorrow I may have to wake early to prepare."

            Kimmuriel half-rose from the table, but Jarlaxle pushed him firmly back down, gesturing at the paperwork.  "Finish it first."

            The bedroom was nearly as elaborate as his study, just as Jarlaxle, having a relatively outlandish taste in luxuries, liked it.  The much-loved hat was hung carefully on a hook, and then Jarlaxle divested himself neatly of his armour and his less-important jewellery and boots.  The gloves went under the pillow, and Jarlaxle gradually blanked out his mind to give the semblance of sleep to the psionist outside, who was feeling more and more disbelieving. 

            After all, if Jarlaxle had proceeded to sleep instead of using the situation to extract sexual favours, it was quite likely to Kimmuriel that the mercenary _had_ meant everything after all.  A short while later, Kimmuriel entered the room, also removing his boots, then softly walked over to the bed and touched Jarlaxle hesitatingly on the arm.  From the lack of tension and the even breathing, Kimmuriel could only conclude that Jarlaxle was really asleep.

            Feigning sleep well was a rather underestimated skill.  

            From the sounds and sensations, Kimmuriel had taken a seat on the edge of the bed, probably in thought, then to Jarlaxle's mild surprise and definite amusement, instead of joining him on it, Kimmuriel got off, and judging by the rustling sounds and the lowered tension on the bed, had knelt down on the flagstones, his head and cushioning arms only on the bed, in a supplicant's position.

            His curiosity satisfied, Jarlaxle decided to allow himself a dark elf's four hours of 'trance' before doing anything about the situation.

            He woke up to find Kimmuriel still in that position, and 'asleep' to all accounts, so he rolled over and stared at the dark elf.  Congratulating himself on possessing a plaything that afforded him this much amount of entertainment, he propped himself up on an arm, reached over, and gently pushed back Kimmuriel's hair behind his ears to better reveal the collar.  Jarlaxle was rather fond of that item.  It was not magical, but it served as a constant reminder to both Kimmuriel and to anyone else who the psionist belonged to.  Needless to say, this action woke Kimmuriel up in turn, and it took a few, sleep-fuddled moments before the psionist came to full consciousness.

            Warily, the psionist looked at Jarlaxle, trying to discern from the now-impassive expression what his master's reaction to this was.  

            Jarlaxle decided to speak first. Yawning, he said, "The bed would have been much warmer had you chosen to join me in it."

            Kimmuriel flinched, but retorted, "You did not give me that express command."

            "Oh? And are you so adept at following express commands, Kimmuriel?"

            "I would… follow them to the best of my ability," Kimmuriel snapped, irritated at the perceived jibe. 

            "And one would think from last night that you could not," Jarlaxle said, lying back onto the bed.  "Did I not tell you not to speak about the situation?"

            "I was worried!"

            "So you would follow express commands only where you feel like it?"

            "I…" Kimmuriel began stiffly, then added, "I apologise for my misconduct."

            "Are you not supposed to add 'It will not happen again'?"

            "I…"

            Jarlaxle sighed, as if greatly disappointed.  "Kimmuriel.  If you say _one more word of dissent about the matter, you will spend the rest of your nights sleeping outside my room, at the door."_

            "And why should that matter?" Kimmuriel asked, his voice rising, "You would treat me like your dog no matter what I do – I might as well sleep like one, act like one!"

            Jarlaxle decided to be somewhat wicked and deny Kimmuriel even the satisfaction of having a good fight, so he chuckled, as if bantering.  "I would admit that attaching a chain to that collar might be somewhat aesthetic."

            "Jarlaxle!" Almost a wail of exasperation.

            Or maybe he should play along, after all.  He looked at Kimmuriel, assuming an expression of curiosity.  "So what would you have me do? Did you not ask me – _beg_ me – to be your 'master'?"

            Kimmuriel shivered under the weight of old memories, but said, "I would serve you, and you only, but I am not a toy that can be discarded on will!"

            "You're not?" Jarlaxle asked, seemingly puzzled, tapping one finger against Kimmuriel's collar.  "I would think that came with the definition."

            "I…" Kimmuriel began indignantly, but was (again) interrupted when Jarlaxle's fingers slipped under the collar and pulled sharply, choking him.  

            Very pleasantly, Jarlaxle said, "Bregan D'aerthe is a free enterprise.  You can leave if you wish – though you know the rules for that.  I admit to taking a lot of liberties from my soldiers, but you were quite a different thing due to _those circumstances.  I will not tolerate much disobedience from you, Kimmuriel, or any of my lieutenants, as a matter of setting an example for the rest of my soldiers – I had thought I'd made that clear.  You may advise, but if I tell you outright to _be_ quiet, you _keep_ quiet.  If it does not match your will, you are, as I said, free to leave the Surface, or even the band, if you so feel like it"_

            Jarlaxle released Kimmuriel, who started coughing, rubbing his throat, then said, in a considerably more broken tone of voice, "I just… want to be with you.  _Please_.  I will do anything you ask.  Just let me go with you."

            Jarlaxle shrugged, and said, complacently, "I will think about it."

            Kimmuriel opened his mouth to protest, but Jarlaxle raised a hand, shooting the psionist a warning glance, and the mage closed it with a ragged sigh.  

            Several hours more to sunrise…

            Jarlaxle sat up, and patted the bed.  "Come here and lie down."

            Kimmuriel complied, a little warily, his expression becoming a little more panicked when Jarlaxle proceeded to strip the psionist of his garments and discard them carelessly on the ground, using a knee to push Kimmuriel's legs apart.  "Jarlaxle…"

            "You think I would exhaust you then leave?" Jarlaxle asked, amused, positioning himself between the psionist's legs, pulling up his knees and spreading them invitingly wider with his hands, looking over Kimmuriel's slender, naked body with an almost critical interest.  "I can tell that much from your thoughts."

            "I…"  Kimmuriel flushed a little under Jarlaxle's gaze, but held his eyes, a little defiantly.

            "Even knowing that I could do that… will you still play?" Jarlaxle slipped his hand slowly up Kimmuriel's inner thigh to its apex, fingers moving expertly until Kimmuriel arched his back in pleasure, shuddering, fingers clenched in the bed sheets.  

            He leaned over the psionist, kissing him.  Kimmuriel responded almost desperately, trying to pull Jarlaxle closer.  Jarlaxle broke the kiss, murmuring, "Keep still."

            "At least… your clothes…" Kimmuriel gasped when Jarlaxle lazily licked his neck, pushing up the collar to expose more tender skin.

            "Who said I was going to play that way?" Jarlaxle smiled at Kimmuriel's look of incredulity.  "After all… you never said if you were going to play."

Kimmuriel bit his lip, and then sighed, defeated.  "If that is your wish, then I will."

            "You will just have to find out what _that_ is, then." 

**

            Zaknafein was strangely non-committal on the matter of visiting Cloakwood – as far as Entreri could tell, the dark elf didn't care at all – only about the prospect of having to spend a few weeks cloistered on a floating ship with Jarlaxle.   From that Entreri could conclude that the Cloakwood mages either didn't do anything to Zaknafein – and that Zaknafein/Sam had escaped extremely quickly, or they had not done anything to the dark elf that he could remember enough to make an impression. 

            "You really do not have to spend so much time sharpening your swords," Entreri complained.  The scraping noise was distracting.  "Either that, or do it somewhere else."   He didn't have that much work to do today, but what with Zaknafein sitting on his expensive study table and sharpening his weapons, it was not really getting done.

            Zaknafein scrutinised his blade, shrugged, and put away both whetstone and weapon.  "True.  If I sharpen it on your flying boat Jarlaxle might talk to me less often."

            "And, you can stop sitting on my table."

            "Why not? You refused to sit in my lap."

            "That has nothing to do with why you shouldn't sit on the table."

            "So if I get off the table will you sit in my lap?"           

            "I already said it has nothing to do with the table," Entreri said patiently.  The words in front of him were wavering out of focus.

            "Really? Both matters have to do with my present comfort."

            "If you got off the table, sat on that sofa, and quietly let me finish all this work, we can go upstairs, where the bed is a lot more comfortable than a chair." Come to think of it, being reasonable didn't actually work when Zaknafein was in this particular mood.

            "Hmmm.  Would you pay more attention to me if I decided to go around killing everything?"

            "Out of necessity? Yes.  But I doubt it's the type of attention you'd prefer.  And that was an extremely juvenile consideration, Zaknafein."

            "Are not insane people allowed to be juvenile?"

            "You don't sound very insane right now."

            "And how are you to judge?"

            "Well… if you go around screaming and killing people for no good reason, that's a relatively decent measure."

            "So you will pay more attention if I was obviously out of my mind, is that it?"

            "I'd pay attention to you _anyway." Entreri said, correcting a document and signing it.  "You know you're… important to me."_

            "It is a very strange sort of importance if you only like me in certain aspects."

            "The degree of attention paid does not equal the amount of like."

            "So you can like something very much and yet never pay any attention to it?"

            "Why am I even having this conversation with you?"

            "Humour me."

            "I think I spend far too much of my time doing that."

            "Therefore you actually think I should mean less to you?"

            Entreri let out a deep sigh.  It looked as though the paperwork was, again, not going to get done.  He wondered how Jarlaxle, who seemed to have brought over a lot of his work from the Underdark, actually got things done.  Probably because Jarlaxle's lover didn't spend this much of Jarlaxle's time. 

            "Hard as it may be for you to understand, I actually… like you more right now," Entreri said dryly, finally looking up, and pointedly putting down his pen.

            "Why? Why is this different from what I was, previously? There is little truth in either."

            "Because previously more than half of the time you didn't look as though you understood what I was saying to you? And sometimes you made it seem as though you were with me only because it was convenient.  It was worse when you had that mask," Entreri explained, very patiently, "Sometimes you showed so much disdain I wondered how you could even bear to be with a human."

            Zaknafein considered this, tapping his chin, and then said, "And now you think I understand you all the time?"

            "Don't you?"

            "No, actually I do not understand you much at all," Zaknafein said mildly.  "You have not given me any reason why you put up with me, and try as I can I cannot really guess at that reason." Entreri stared at him – was it possible for a dark elf to be that dense, or was Zaknafein purposely trying to force him to say it?

            "Humans aren't always rational," Entreri muttered.

            "Ah, so therefore putting up with me is an irrational choice?"

            "You are _so beginning to sound like Jarlaxle."_

            "The Gods forbid."

            "It isn't irrational.  I think you give yourself far too little credit."

            "And why not? Relatively speaking, nothing in this world matters.  Existence is as fickle as the winds on your Surface world, and no one can actually make anything of worth to survive the ages."   
            "And is that how you measure how something 'matters'?"

            "How would you do it?"

            "As to whether, at any present moment, anything else cares about what you do."

            "Do you care?"

            "Yes." 

            "Why?"

            "Haven't we had this conversation before?"

            "And we will keep having it until I get an answer."

            "Why is that so important to you?"

            "Then I can tell whether you will continue to care."

            "Do _you care? About me?" Entreri retorted._

            "Yes."

            "Why?"

            "Because I love you," Zaknafein said shortly, and turned into Sam.

**

            Being her first trip on a Floating Galleon, Sam was actually very excited, and was a little, brightly-dressed ball of energy, asking the mages on the ship all sorts of strange questions, at times even teetering precariously over the railing.  Entreri wasn't very sure how Zaknafein and Sam had gotten over to Calimport, but Sam had said something about Zaknafein having assaulted some sort of wizard and they'd gotten teleported here.  He was not really sure how much credence to give that story, since to his knowledge no wizard could actually teleport anything to such a distance.  It was just one of the suspicious aspects to this entire venture which he hoped that a visit to Cloakwood would clear up.

            Other things that he wished would clear up were situations like his present one with Zaknafein, who had not only refused to come out, but had refused to listen to anyone other than Sam, of whom he did so out of necessity since they essentially shared the same body.  Entreri didn't even want to talk to Jarlaxle about it, even though he had (to understate things) been extremely shocked by Zaknafein's last announcement. 

            But even if Zaknafein did decide to return… Entreri wasn't sure if he could say the same thing, or whether it was indeed love on his part.  A lifetime spent learning the blade for him hadn't included much lessons on the heart (metaphorically speaking, of course), other than how to stop it.

            "That's the last of it," one of his assassins returned from the hold where they had put their horses and travel necessities.  "Are you sure you don't want any of us to come with you, sir?"

            Entreri shook his head.  "It will be a lot faster this way, and I can always ask for help.  I'm more worried about what you lot will do in Calimport when I'm away."

            The assassin grinned.  "We'd be fine." He kneeled down to pat Sam on the head.  "Hey, have fun now!"

            "Yup, thanks!" Sam grinned.  Dressed in a straw hat with a bright yellow ribbon and a pastel blue and pink frock with matching gloves, shoes and socks (in miscellaneous pastels) she looked like a young, female follower of the Fashion House of Jarlaxle, and Entreri made a mental note to check his followers for colour blindness when he came back.  Perhaps it was because their professions all required them to wear dull, unassuming greys and greens.

            Jarlaxle walked up to him when all of Entreri's minions had left the ship, and they were about to take off.  To everyone other than Sam and Entreri, apparently Jarlaxle and Kimmuriel – who had seemed strangely subdued today, were just two Sun elves, and Jarlaxle was having fun showing off his perfect Elvish speech to the few mages who were not busy enough to ignore him.  

            "How long will it take?" Jarlaxle asked, watching as the mages magically pulled the ropes up, as well as the anchor, and ponderously, sails pushed by large, barely visible air elementals, fire roaring air into the huge balloons, the ship rose high into the air.

            "Depending on the weather, maybe two weeks or less.  I generally don't leave Calimport, let alone sit on Floating Galleons."

            "It's interesting that Zaknafein did not want to show up to see this," Jarlaxle said, but when Entreri looked at the mercenary, Jarlaxle only seemed to be admiring the view as the ship soared up at an angle, picking up speed, giant, bladed propellers whirring.  

            "Well… Sam was a lot more interested," Entreri gestured at the little girl, who was standing as close as she could to the propellers, alarming its attendants.  "And Zaknafein was balking at the idea of having to spend this long closeted on a ship with you."

            Jarlaxle chuckled.  "I expect I'd see him soon enough, then." 

            "What about you? I'm surprised Kimmuriel isn't following you around closely."

            "He does not like the sunlight," Jarlaxle shrugged, unconcerned.  "Even with spells."

            "I'm surprised you took him along.  Didn't you say he might cause problems?"

            "I convinced him not to," Jarlaxle said, with a grin.

            "And… just don't tell me what you did," Entreri winced.  "One day I think you'd go a little too far."  
            "Eh, do not worry.  As I said… I always know what I'm doing."

            "What would you do if he leaves?" Entreri challenged.  
            Jarlaxle held on to his hat as a gust of wind threatened to steal it.  "Would he?"

            "If you push him too far, he might."

            "I doubt it.  He seems to have very large limits."

            "But he _does have limits."_

            "I know.  Testing them is one of my sources of amusement.  What would you do if Zaknafein left?"

            Entreri grimaced.  The sudden stab of pain was decidedly unsuspected.  "I don't know."

            "If he left Calimport, then?"

            "I don't know," Entreri looked down at the city.  "If I could, I would stay in Calimport for the rest of my life.  Far too hot as the city is, it does have its charm."

            "That is one of Zaknafein's little faults.  If he thinks you are placing too much emphasis on something when you ostensibly feel a certain way, he'd interpret it in a certain manner.  He is a little too given to imposing his own views on others, quite unthinkingly." Jarlaxle glanced at Sam, who was, due to the whistling winds, out of hearing and still bounding around near the propellers.  "I think that was part of his problem in his previous life.  The Matron he was with also had a very strong character, and there came a point where she refused to put up with his own opposing character."

            "So what are you saying?"

            "That 'life with' Zaknafein, as a couple – might end up just being a dream."

            "Some dreams can be made reality."

            Jarlaxle glanced at Entreri.  "Well then, why do you not do what has to be done?"

            "Which is?"      

            "Tell him how you feel?"

            "How do you know how I feel, anyway?"

            "Your face, your voice, when you talk about him, your body language when you're with him… and you forget who I have as a lover," Jarlaxle grinned. 

            "Why is it so important to you anyway?"

            Jarlaxle shifted his eye patch, a sure sign that he was interrupting anyone actually trying to see past his surface thoughts.  "Because I know what it feels like when someone whom you hope – would feel a certain way about you – actually tells you what he feels like.  Sometimes it is not enough to just see him act as though he feels that way."

            Was Jarlaxle talking about Kimmuriel? After all, who else could read minds on the ship? Puzzled, all Entreri could say was, "Did you say anything to that someone in return?"

            "No, nothing of importance," Jarlaxle looked away and outwards over the horizon as the rose over the (very) sparse clouds (the rainy season was just ending, and all there would be soon would be clear blue desert sky).  "Sometimes I wonder if I should have.  But, it was a long time ago," Jarlaxle slapped Entreri on the shoulder.  "And there is no use in regretting the past.  Did you think to bring good wine?"

            "The mages have that," Entreri replied, mulling over Jarlaxle's answer.  

            "Then I suggest we drink to the possible success of our trip."

**

            I sold my soul to you in the Marketplace of ghosts and dreams and pretty beads, and received nothing in return.  

            But I am content, no, what makes you think that is the source of my pain?

            It remains to be seen whether you are the Devil… or merely mortal, with a mortal's failings. 

            For there are no Angels to be had.


	6. Even the Damned

Author's note: I will drown all of you in angst until you pay me! [evil laughter]

Part 6

Even the Damned

            Entreri could actually see the question taking form, building up steam, confidence, bubbling up and finally forming words in her mouth.

            "Are we there yet?" Sam asked, hopefully.

            "Sam… it'd be at least a week.  These things don't actually move very fast, depending on the weather, and we'd have to stop to refuel at Amn." Entreri had said this so many times that it'd become automatic.

            "So where are we now?"

            "Over some miscellaneous desert." Entreri did not like deserts, the wide expanses not only being far too hot, but also possessing far too few hiding places.  At least, now that it was night, he couldn't see that much into the darkness, and could delude himself into thinking that he wasn't over the desert.

            "How long have we been riding?" Sam seemed so despondent that Entreri picked her up, allowing little hands to encircle his neck.

            "Two days," Entreri said comfortingly.  "Didn't you say you liked flying?"

            "Yes, but… so we're nearly halfway there?"

            "I don't think so," Entreri said mildly, "I don't see Amn anywhere."

            Sam sighed.  "It's so boring!"  
            "Why don't you go and talk to Jarlaxle? I'm sure he has something for you to do." Jarlaxle was strangely adept at producing little items of interest – a cube of colours that shifted when turned, little annoying puzzles that always drove Entreri nuts whenever he tried to attempt one, and the odd magical jigsaw.  Jarlaxle said they were to ease his own boredom, but Entreri had never seen him play with them.

            "He said he was going to talk with Kimmuriel for a while, so I wasn't to disturb him." Sam replied, wrinkling her brow.  "I wonder what they do together.  It always seems to take forever."

            Entreri winced inwardly, knowing quite well what _that _was.  "Well… it's probably work."

            "Then why won't he talk to me if it's just that? _You _talk to me when you're working all the time."

            "It's secret work, then," Entreri corrected hastily.  "And probably very boring."

            "Really?"

            "Work is always boring," Entreri assured her, hoping that someday he'd get to kill Jarlaxle for this. 

            "Zaknafein says you're lying," Sam said suddenly, her eyes widening.  They both knew that this was surprising – Zaknafein had shut himself out of the outside world since his… declaration… and despite what they both tried to say to him, he had ignored them.  Even a little self-conscious angsting on Entreri's part had only served to give the assassin an acute feeling of embarrassment.  He was definitely not suited for angst.

            "Why would he say that?" Entreri asked, carefully, hoping none of the anxiety in his voice turned up.

            "He says… you know exactly what they are doing," Sam said, taking his cue.  "So what's that?"

            "Uh… tell Zaknafein it can also be counted as a form of work."

            "He said he can hear you very well… and in that case, it'd hardly be called 'very boring'."

            "Well…" Entreri groped for something to say, "Er.  It was just… well, whatever they're doing, it's private."

            "Oh, okay," Sam said, puzzled.  "But they must be having fun."

            "Jarlaxle is, at least," Entreri muttered before he could stop himself.  "Can I speak to Zaknafein face to face?"

            "Um," Sam frowned, and then looked a little worried.  "Sorry about this… but he says he has nothing to say to you… and he's gone now." She stared up at the assassin helplessly.  "I don't understand him."

            Entreri sighed, staring blindly into the darkness.  "Why?"

            "Well, he said he loved you.  So why is he avoiding you?"

            "How am I supposed to know?" Entreri asked, managing to keep the irritation out of his voice.  "I guess sometimes people do that.  I spent most of my life studying swordplay, not romance."

            "He's feeling hurt about _something, but I don't know what, and he won't tell.  I'm getting really confused."_

            Entreri didn't have anything to say to that, and he looked down at his gauntleted hand, eyes tracing the confusing details, interwoven metallic strands twisting and turning into something quite disturbing… and felt better.  It always calmed him, the artefact attached permanently to his hand – its weight and permanent cold always served to remind him of his own existence.  "Let's go in.  What if I tell you a story?"

            "Okay," Sam brightened up.

            The assassin moved carefully over the deck, nodding to the mages, then moved inside, habitually walking down precisely over the support on the stairs such that nothing creaked, then finding his room along plush, carpeted corridors.  

            When entering, Sam, as if having thought long about it, asked curiously, "If you love him, why can't you say it?"

            Entreri grimaced.  Sam had a terrible habit of saying the most painful things right when you weren't expecting it.  The assassin put her on the ground, and then closed the door, leaning on it and closing his eyes.  "I… just can't."

            "But you love him?"

            "I don't know what love is."

            "It's when you think so much of someone that everything he is and everything he can become means the world to you, and you're just that little bit more insane around the person, and just a little bit more sane.  It's when it hurts to be away from the person, and it hurts when you know how fragile it is, how it might not last forever, or if it's even returned at all.  It's an ultimate paradox, because it causes the most pain, and the most bliss."  
            "Where did you come up with that?" Sometimes the little girl surprised him. Entreri opened his eyes, sitting down on the carpet and patting Sam's head. 

            "Well…" Sam seemed a little sheepish.  "Zaknafein just told that to me."

            "So he's listening?"

            "Even when he says he isn't, whenever I'm around you he always is."  Sam picked at a frock, as if not sure if she wanted to say what was next.  "Uh.  Around Jarlaxle he's never in, though.  You won't tell Jarlaxle that, would you?"

            "I'm quite sure the mercenary would only find that incredibly funny," Entreri said dryly.  "And… I still don't know what love is.  Words are just words, and it's really hard to pin it on unfamiliar emotions."

            Sam patted his hand a little reassuringly.  "I think you love him."

            "You know what? So does Jarlaxle, and apparently, the rest of the world.  But I really don't know."

            "Then what are you always trying to say to him?"

            Entreri managed to get the words out this time.  "That I need him.  I can't imagine living without him, now, and it frightens me every time he stays away, because I can't help thinking it may be for good.  I was hoping nothing would… happen, and we'd just continue like we were four days ago, because he was nearly always around.  What he said before we left…" Entreri, not really used to speaking on this topic, gave up and sighed.  "I don't know how to react to him.  Not that he's even giving me a chance to learn."

            A long pause, then Sam sighed.  "He's not talking.  Sorry."

            "It's not your fault, princess," Entreri forced a grin.  "Do you want your story now? Then later we can go to the kitchen for cakes before you sleep."

**

            "How long?" Entreri blinked.

            "Er," Iparken, the eccentric gnome mage-captain of this particular Floating Galleon – oddly named _There Is No Justice, consulted his illusory map.  "Well, you have to understand, old friend.  The weather's not very nice this time of year, and unless we want to suffer a lot of damage we have to weave through this front…" he stabbed a tiny finger at a white blip, "And then uh, go around this forming eye," The tiny finger moved to another blip, a larger, rounder one.  "And uh, then we'd have to skirt this bank…"_

            "Just the time again, Captain, please," Jarlaxle said politely.

            "Well, I estimate about six days – and that's good time, I assure you – to Amn, then we'd refuel for a day, then hopefully five or six days to your Cloakwood.  We'd drop you off there, and then you can meet us up at Baldur's Gate when you're done."

            Sam let out a deep sigh, from where she was seated in front of the illusion on the table.  "But that's ages! I'd be old by then!"

            "Somehow, I rather doubt that, my lady," Jarlaxle grinned.  "And you can make use of your time by learning how to play chess."

            "Entreri doesn't want to learn and you aren't free all the time," Sam pouted.

            "I, er, I can play with you if you wish," Iparken said.  Iparken and Sam had gotten along very well, because they were nearly the same size.

            "You play chess?" Jarlaxle brightened.

            "Oh no…" Entreri muttered.  "Iparken, don't answer him."

            "Well, er, I always like new opponents," Iparken said with a wide, toothy grin at the assassin, who mourned privately the loss of a good conversationalist.  Knowing the obsessiveness of the mage and the obsessiveness of Jarlaxle, it was quite likely he would now no longer have anyone to speak with.  

            "Can we play now, Captain?" Jarlaxle asked, a little too anxiously for Entreri's comfort.  "This trip is beginning to bore me out of my mind."

            "That must take some doing," Entreri said dryly.  "Sam, are you going to stay?"

            "Yep, I think I want to watch," Sam said, helping Iparken get and set up a beautiful glass chess set on the table, arranging Jarlaxle's pieces for him.  "You don't mind, right?"

            "No… have fun," Entreri grinned.  "I'm going to do some work, then I'd come back, okay?"

            "Sure," Sam said, watching Iparken's opening moves carefully.  "What'd you do that for? Jarlaxle doesn't do that." 

            "It's the Queen's Gambit," Jarlaxle explained for the gnome mage, "I play a little differently, so I do not use it.  That does not mean Iparken is wrong, Sam.  Chess has several different ways of moving."

            "You read on this?" Iparken asked, rather happily.

            "Of course," Jarlaxle nodded.  "After all, what use is long life when one does not utilise it to further one's knowledge?"

            "Very true," Iparken nodded, comfortably waiting for Jarlaxle's move.  Entreri let himself out of the room, closing the door softly.

**

            Surprisingly, Kimmuriel was on the deck, leaning against the intricate railing and looking out over the desert.  The sky was just beginning to darken, so Entreri guessed the light wasn't as intrusive now as it was a few hours ago.  Though it was odd that the psionist had decided to come out of his room – Entreri would have thought that short of burning down his quarters, there would be no way to pry Kimmuriel out of them.

            "Greetings, Kimmuriel," Entreri said, deciding to be polite, and taking a spot on the railings that was respectfully out of Kimmuriel's personal space.

            Kimmuriel glanced at him out of habit.  "Greetings, Entreri," he said neutrally.  Immediate points for not saying 'human' instead of his name.  Which might actually mean that Kimmuriel was trying to be nice, therefore, trying to gain favours.  Entreri found himself growing wary, and watched his words.

            "Uh, I think Jarlaxle will be occupied for at least a few hours."

            "I know," Kimmuriel said, his voice still flat.  "I cannot expect him to be… His time is his own."

            Definitely jealous, though trying not to be.  "All right," Entreri said, diplomatically.

            "Kept in an area so much smaller than your human City or a Dark Elven one, he manages to spend _much less time with me than normal," Kimmuriel said, so softly that Entreri nearly did not manage to catch it over the winds. _

            "Well… Sam does take up a lot of time," Entreri replied, trying to be polite.  Besides, a Kimmuriel who wasn't contemptuously staring at him, or just pointedly ignoring him, was a novelty.  "And he normally does not have any reason to obsessively play chess, so I guess he will now take the opportunity."

            Kimmuriel sighed, and there was something almost heart-breaking in that.  "There is that.  And I did… insist on coming along."

            And suddenly, Entreri grasped the reason why Kimmuriel was actually talking to him.  In Calimport, or in the Underdark, at least there were other dark elves to talk to – the other lieutenants, the minions… but here, service was quiet and discreet, and Kimmuriel was not likely to start lively conversations with the non-drow mages.  The only other person – Sam, to whom Kimmuriel might talk to, was slightly scared of him, and also avoided him, and Entreri got the idea that he didn't actually like children, anyway.  In short, the psionist was acutely lonely, and probably just as acutely homesick, and Jarlaxle was quite likely purposefully avoiding him for fun, just to see what would happen.  

            It probably galled the psionist greatly that the only person who would, out of politeness if nothing else, talk to him, was someone he really, really didn't like, and whom he doubtless saw as the reason why he was on this lonely journey in the first place.  Kimmuriel had a habit of sliding the blame to Entreri, and the assassin didn't really mind, because he didn't really care.  

            "Well… if you go down to our meals you could see him then," Entreri suggested.  Kimmuriel normally declined to eat with them, and stayed in the rooms.

            "I do not think I could bear it if he ignored me during them," Kimmuriel replied, squinting at the sky.  "It will be dark soon."

            "Don't you see him every night?"

            Kimmuriel nodded.  "I have that, at least.  Though of late all we have done is share the bed in sleep."  The psionist took a shuddering breath, and then faced Entreri.  "Did he… did he say anything about me to you?"

            "Only the usual," Entreri belatedly understood the intention behind the question.  "He did not express any dissatisfaction on your behaviour, if that's what you mean.  Why do you ask?"

            "Because since we have boarded this ship, whenever he talks to you…. there are times when he uses his eye patch to block out my 'listening'," Kimmuriel said, looking away, fingers clenching.  "And I would like to know why, since he normally never does that.  He would not tell me, and I do not know how I have displeased him."

            "You didn't," Entreri said, wondering how powerful mages could also be reduced to nervous wrecks just by a simple thing as inattention.  

            "Then what did he say?"

            To tell, or not to tell? Entreri smoothed out his own thoughts, in case Jarlaxle actually did not wish him to say anything about his regrets or general feelings about Kimmuriel.  After all, not only was it none of his business, Jarlaxle made it quite clear that he did not want Kimmuriel to learn about it.  "I think he will talk to you about it when he is ready."

            This seemed to make Kimmuriel even more nervous, unfortunately – Entreri rather tardily regretted his wording.  "'When he is ready'? What…" the psionist frowned, arms now tightly folded over the railing.  "He is not leaving again, is he?" The panic in his voice, despite the obvious attempts to suppress it, was very evident.

            Ah, of all the worst-case scenarios…

            "You're really rather paranoid, aren't you?"

            "Well?" Kimmuriel snapped, some of his dark elven ideas of racial superiority returning.  

            "If he was thinking of doing that, he never said anything about that to me," Entreri said dryly.  "And I certainly have no intention of ever leaving on another decade-long hiatus with him as my sole companion.  It is quite likely that I would lose my sanity."

            "Then what? He has another in mind? He does not want me as his lover any longer?"

            Worst-case scenarios number two.

            "He doesn't sleep around normally?"

            Kimmuriel failed to grasp the rather poor joke.  "As far as I know," he said stiffly, "Jarlaxle has not engaged in such activity with any other ever since we have been… together."

            "It was not that, either," Entreri said carefully.

            "It was not some omission on my part, or some sort of action or word?"

            "Well…" It had been something like that, but not how Kimmuriel would think… Faced with an outright demand, Entreri could only hesitate.  Kimmuriel understood the hesitation immediately – mind mages oddly enough got to understand body language and its equivalent in attitude rather quickly – though from the other end of the spectrum (observing thoughts first, and then absently noting the accompanying body language…).

            "What was it? What did I do?" Kimmuriel's voice rose a little.  "Why would he not tell me?"  The mage was _really upset now, and Entreri was beginning to feel nervous himself.  Jarlaxle might not be very happy about this…_

            "Ah, there you are," Jarlaxle's voice sounded somewhere behind them.  They both whirled, to see the mercenary leader wander up to them.  Studying the dark elf's face, Entreri could not be certain whether or not Jarlaxle had overheard them.  From the shock on Kimmuriel's face at his sudden appearance, he wondered why the psionist had not 'felt' his master's presence.

            Jarlaxle moved his eye patch, winking at Entreri with the newly uncovered eye.  "I was not quite sure whether that gnome friend of yours had mind-reading capabilities," Jarlaxle grinned.  "Partway through the game, he seemed to be moving so quickly that I wondered whether he knew what I was trying to do."

            "Iparken is just good," Entreri shrugged.  Kimmuriel was actually trembling next to him with the effort of suppressing an outburst of some nature.  "What did you come up for?"

            "Sam wants her notebook," Jarlaxle explained, "And you have the key."  He gave no sign of even acknowledging Kimmuriel's presence.  

            "Her notebook?"

            "She seems to think that writing down the moves would help her skill," Jarlaxle said thoughtfully.  "Which is not really a good idea, considering it is a poor way of learning as compared to us just teaching her, but we might as well humour her."

            "I will go get it, then," Entreri said, relieved that he had an excuse to leave before Kimmuriel started really freaking him out.  

**

            Jarlaxle watched as Entreri left the deck, and then raised an eyebrow at Kimmuriel, his face unreadable.  His lover shrank back against the railing, as if rebuked, biting his lip.  Jarlaxle tipped his hat, a little mockingly, in greeting, and then turned on his heel to return to the room. 

            Kimmuriel ran forward, and wrapped his arms around Jarlaxle tightly from behind, actually stifling a sob.  "Master…"

            "My, my, Kimmuriel," Jarlaxle said, with terrible gentleness, stroking Kimmuriel's fingers.  "Whatever is the matter?"

            "I…" Another stifled sob.  "I apologise."

            "An apology? Whatever for?"

            "Whatever it was," Kimmuriel said desperately.  "_Please do not ignore me."_

            Jarlaxle neither denied nor affirmed that fact.  "You were speaking with Entreri?"

            "Yes," Kimmuriel murmured, beginning to calm down just by being this close to his master.  This comfort did not last for long, as Jarlaxle pried himself out of the psionist's grip and turned around, keeping his distance.

            "Ah, that is good to hear," Jarlaxle nodded, as if praising a pet.  "He is not too bad for his kind.  Dark elves would have much to learn from their industry."

            Kimmuriel shook his head, refusing to let Jarlaxle change the topic.  "He would not tell me why you have been ignoring me."

            Jarlaxle walked past Kimmuriel, to the railing, and ran a gloved finger over the carvings.  "What I choose to do is always my own business.  Are you judging me, Kimmuriel?"

            "N-no…"

            "I do not need to read minds to know when someone is lying," Jarlaxle reminded Kimmuriel mildly.  

            "I love you!"

            "Now _you are changing the subject," Jarlaxle said pleasantly, ignoring the emotional weight of those three words.  "You should not judge others when you do not follow your own little codes."_

            "But it is _true," Kimmuriel stepped forward and grasped Jarlaxle's arm insistently, making his master turn and look at him.  "_I love you_…"_

            "As you have told me before, repeatedly," Jarlaxle interrupted, with the same pleasant tone.  "I'd have you know I heard you quite clearly the first time."

            Kimmuriel stared at him.  "You do not… believe me?"

            Jarlaxle smiled like a snake.  "Would you rather I said 'no', or 'yes'? Which one would hurt more? That I do not think you feel that way, or that I know you feel that way, but I do not care?"

            "Which is it?" Kimmuriel asked, obviously dreading the answer.

            "Answer my question first."

            "You will break me either way," Kimmuriel replied, looking away in pain.  "But I will still love you."

            Jarlaxle reached out, and gently caressed Kimmuriel's cheek, guiding his face back up to his, looking deeply into the psionist's eyes, the cold serpent smile disappearing… but for a moment, as it returned again, and Jarlaxle shrugged off the psionist's grip and pushed him roughly aside.  "I may be late today," he said curtly, and stalked off.

            Kimmuriel stared at his master's retreating back, and slumped down onto the deck, suddenly boneless.  "I love you," he whispered.  "Why…? I love you…"

**

            Entreri felt extremely thankful that when he returned, both Kimmuriel and Jarlaxle were nowhere to be seen.  He wasn't quite sure what he would have said, but he also wasn't sure who he would have defended.  It was none of his business, but at this rate, they would not have a functional, rational mage in Cloakwood.  He wondered if Jarlaxle's attitude was also because, unable to get 'away' from Kimmuriel due to the greater amount of work in Calimport, the mercenary leader's 'problems' were all the more apparent, and he was dealing with it by avoiding it, which was causing the current problem…

            In the Captain's quarters, Jarlaxle was watching Sam and Iparken play, guiding her moves.  He nodded when he saw Entreri enter. 

            "My book! Thank you!" Sam bounced off the chair and hugged Entreri when he kneeled down to give it to her.  The all-important book  was actually a  tattered, scavenged wizard's book that one of the thieves had 'acquired'.  But it was pretty, if one ignored how the gems on the leatherbound cover had been removed, probably with a sharp knife.

            Watching chess was excruciatingly boring, but he would rather do that than go out and accidentally run into Kimmuriel again, so he kept his peace and watched, making appropriate noises of encouragement where necessary.  Sam lost, even with Jarlaxle's guidance, and wrote down the gnome mage's – and the mercenary's – suggestions neatly in her notebook.  Entreri had looked in the notebook once, and it had the weirdest lines, like "When entering a house make sure that you land on a floor".  

            Still, at least that meant there was no indication that she would be a lawyer.

            An hour later, Sam thankfully began yawning, so Entreri took the opportunity to insist that she was tired and drag her out of the room.  Jarlaxle waved at him, and Iparken made a more formal goodbye, and they were free.

            "Why'd you do that?" Sam yawned.  "I wanted to watch."

            "It's quite late enough for you, young lady," Entreri said, looking around warily for Kimmuriel.  Thankfully, he didn't run into the psionist anywhere, and he reached his room without incident.  

            "You don't like chess either?" Sam asked, voice a little muffled as she went into the side room to prepare to sleep.  

            "What do you mean, 'either'?" Entreri swore briefly as a buckle on his armour caught.  "Don't you like it?"

            "Zaknafein didn't," Sam replied, and then before Entreri could ask, she started brushing her teeth.  Patiently, he waited the three dutiful minutes before she spat and rinsed.  "He prefers what he calls 'real' fighting.  I think he's being unfair."

            "Well, Zaknafein does not consider magical fighting 'real' either," Entreri replied carefully.

            "Why not?"

            "It seems to disagree with his personality somehow.  For some reason he thinks they aren't making enough effort."

            "That's odd…"

            Entreri waited for Sam to get out before going in to use the washroom himself.  "No one said old Dark Elves had to be rational."

            A long silence.

            "Sam?" Entreri stuck his head out of the door.  "Is something wrong?"

            "I think you just hit on part of his problem," Sam said, slowly, looking mildly surprised.

**

            Jarlaxle returned slowly to his rooms, yawning.  That gnome friend of Entreri's was much sharper than he would give him credit for, and the mercenary leader could only beat him barely half of the time.  Getting defeated only fuelled his desire for another game, and yet another… until before he knew it, it had become extremely late.  Still, at least he had found a few more sources of entertainment.  He knew that only using Kimmuriel as a primary 'source' was not emotionally healthy for the psionist.  Besides, he was quite sure that after tonight's exchange, 'upset' could not even begin to cover Kimmuriel's current mental makeup.

            He was right – in his room, Kimmuriel was curled up tightly in the bed, swathed protectively in blankets, his back to him, making a show of not caring when his master entered the room, though a tell-tale flinch at the first sound of the bracelets and anklets when Jarlaxle walked in said otherwise.  Jarlaxle shrugged, closing the door and preparing for a night's rest, taking his time, folding his clothes and arranging his armour, then washing up.  

            It helped him decide what he wanted to do, at least, and he walked over to the bed in silence, getting in and turning his own back on Kimmuriel, closing his eyes.  No response from the psionist for a while, and Jarlaxle was considering falling asleep when Kimmuriel asked softly, "Trying to sleep?"

            Jarlaxle turned around to see Kimmuriel looking anxiously at him.  "I was thinking," he replied shortly.

            "Oh." Kimmuriel weighed the consequences of being insolent in Jarlaxle's current projected mood, and decided against it.  Tentatively, he crept closer to Jarlaxle until fully in his master's arms, head tucked under Jarlaxle's chin, letting out a soft sigh of contentment.  Jarlaxle was vaguely disappointed to realize that Kimmuriel was wearing his pants, but decided he did not really bother, and slowly stroked his lover's hair, concentrating on its aesthetic beauty.  

            "Is there… anything I can help with?" Kimmuriel asked, when the silence began to stretch.

            "No," Jarlaxle replied, with a slight smile.  "Forget about it."

            "I am… sorry about what happened just now," Kimmuriel said then, nuzzling Jarlaxle hesitantly, as if afraid that he would get pushed away.  "I got a little… carried away… I apologise for the scene."

            "Hmmm." Jarlaxle made a non-committal sound.

            "But I do love you, you know," Kimmuriel said, his voice now wistful.  Encouraged by the silence, he added, "I have done so for a long time.  Even before you left for the Surface with Entreri.  I just could not bear to tell you before that, because I was afraid you would… I did not want to leave you.  Then you left, anyway, and when you came back the thought of you leaving again was so much worse I had to tell you.  I had to do something.  I was so afraid that you would go…"

            "Why?" Jarlaxle asked, neutrally.  He knew all that already.  Kimmuriel had a habit of repeating himself.

            "Just the thought of not being able to be near…"

            "I meant, why do you love me?"

            "Because I can," Kimmuriel replied, in the same, pensive tone.  

            "That does not sound very constant," Jarlaxle said, with a dry laugh.

            "Somehow it is.  Even if you push me away, hit me… hurt me… I still love you.  Everything you do to me makes me love you more."

            Jarlaxle ran his fingers down Kimmuriel's spine, eliciting a gasp.  "You do know that I'm only using you."

            "Yes." Kimmuriel sighed.  "I believe that it is an illusion that you care for me.  A very carefully maintained illusion, at that.  I think I know what you told that human, just so that by his attitude and his face I could discern it at that moment, and react to it, because I cannot help but react to it – I'm never sure when you mean something, or when you do not.  You're only toying with me, I think – for entertainment.  I doubt you even feel anything for me other than some kind of possessive affection, if at all."

            "And knowing this, you would still cling on to the illusion? Why? I did not see you as lacking in intelligence."

            "Because even the damned can dream."

**

            "He thinks I won't… I don't… I… well, because he's insane?" Entreri asked in disbelief.

            "That seems to be it," Sam said, blinking.  "I felt the surge when you said it."

            "Okay…" Entreri said, uncertainly, hastily finishing his toiletries.  "Anything else?"

            "That seems to be mainly it.  Oh yes, and he's jealous that you seem to be talking more about Cloakwood than about him, but he's obviously not saying that out loud."  Sam grinned, cocking her head as if listening to something.  "Ha, ha."

            "Well, I would talk more about him if he decided to talk to me," Entreri said dryly.  "I hate it when he sulks.  And this conversation is damned awkward." He got out and walked over to the bed.  "I refuse to encourage him in this.  Tell him to talk to me about it to my face.  I don't want to talk about it otherwise."

            Sam climbed onto the bed.  "Is that a good idea?"

            "If he thinks he can just retreat without thinking about what I feel whenever he says something that important… If he thinks he can play with me when he feels like it, and retreat when he doesn't… well, he… I would not tolerate that," Entreri finished irritably.  "Humouring him just hurts more than it should, and I'm getting very tired of it.  Unlike Kimmuriel with Jarlaxle – I will not let Zaknafein, or anyone, bend me to his will.  I will never accept any master."

            "He's definitely sulking now," Sam said thoughtfully then.

            "Whatever," Entreri said, choking down the other, more insistent response, and pulled the blanket to his neck.  

            Sam sighed.  "You are both far too stubborn."

            "Tell that more loudly to the one in your head."

            Sam let out an exasperated sound, and then there was a short silence.

            Abruptly, the pressure point on the bed where she was became a lot heavier.

            Entreri turned around and looked into the face of Zaknafein, who seemed so surprised that the expression it was almost comical.  The assassin had to suppress a grin.  Apparently Sam had a lot more control over the body than Zaknafein would have thought. 

            "Your armour," Entreri said pointedly, hoping to stave off any outburst with banalities.

            Zaknafein looked at him, and then removed it, dumping it on the ground, and then grudgingly climbing in, freezing briefly when Entreri moved to hold him and lead his head against the dark elf's chest, before completing the embrace.  

            "I am beginning to think you do this just to try and get my attention," Entreri muttered.

            Zaknafein snorted.

            "If that is the case, I'd like you to know that you always have my attention.  Whenever you are actually around, of course.  And before you say that is just out of necessity, it's not.  I just cannot help but be drawn to you.  Happy now?"

            "No," Zaknafein replied, shortly.

            "I knew I should have brought stuffed toys on this trip."

            "Do you care, then?"

            "What?"

            "About what I said to you, then."

            "Obviously I do."

            "Then why did you not…"

            "React? Well, I can hardly indulge in a melodramatic outburst in front of the wrong person, can I? Sam wouldn't appreciate it, and it'd just make her uncomfortable.  And… melodramatic outbursts are not my strong point."

            "I know.  You are very much like a wolf." A pause.  "I like that."

            "I will not depend on you, and I hope you will be the same." Entreri said.  "I'd stay with you, but I will not tolerate you trying to control me or manipulate my feelings.  I will not do that to you."

            "All right," Zaknafein said, thoughtfully.  

            "Will you be satisfied if I just told you I need you and asked you not to try anything so funny as to leave?" Entreri was quite glad that Zaknafein's mood had swung again back to 'reasonable'.  

            "Hardly, but it would suffice for now." Zaknafein stroked Entreri's cheek with the back of his fingers.  "Do you want to play a little?"

            "I thought you'd never ask."


	7. Inconvenience

Part 7

Inconvenience

            "Do you think this is the reason we will take six days to reach Athkatla?" Jarlaxle asked mildly.

            Specks were approaching from all sides, apparently cloaked magically such that even Iparken couldn't get a focus on them to see what they were.  

            "Well, we're already off schedule, since we're at the halfway mark and it's been about four days," Entreri replied dryly.  The problem with large flying ships was that if the wind, and in this case, wind along with driving sleet, was against them, they seemed to slow to a crawl.  

            "Do you think they are hostile?" Zaknafein asked, idly fingering his swords.

            "I think that may be more than a possibility, considering the mages haven't been expecting any airborne visitors," Entreri replied, watching the increasing nervousness of the mage crew, then looking around at the luxurious finery of _There Is No Justice_, which would make good money for any raiders.  "Besides, I have heard of people who try to loot Flying Galleons.  They only need to puncture the balloons, and then pick through the wreck later for valuables."

            "And how fragile are the balloons, pray tell?" Jarlaxle asked mildly, looking up on reflex. 

            "Well… I believe they are magically reinforced to have the hardness of steel, but wrecks have been known to happen," Entreri admitted. 

            "Perhaps this is not a good time to say I dislike flying," Zaknafein said wryly.

            "Really? But you did it quite a few times in Menzoberranzan," Jarlaxle raised an eyebrow, after noting that no one else seemed to be in earshot.  "All those House Raids and levitations."

            "It does not mean that I _liked_ it," Zaknafein said.  Entreri realized belatedly that while on deck, Zaknafein had always looked anywhere but downwards, and always kept as far as possible from the railing while still being possessively near the assassin.  Sam, on the other hand, seemed extremely unconcerned, possibly because her child's mind didn't connect the winds with a possible fall ending in lethal consequences on the ground below.  Sometimes Entreri wished he had that kind of mind, especially in certain circumstances in the past where he had been required to scale high walls without any kind of rope or safety precautions. 

            "Where's Kimmuriel?" Entreri asked warily.  The specks – about twenty of them – were now close enough for everyone to see that they were armored humanoids on the backs of what looked like large crows.  Quite a few of the humanoids had crossbows.  Close enough to see crossbows – wait, that meant… 

            Entreri, Zaknafein and Jarlaxle dived for cover when crossbow bolts whistled past them, some shuddering to a halt in the woodwork.  Somewhere to the front, there was a choked gurgle as a crossbow bolt found its target in the throat of a mage.  From the shocked, panicked sounds of the mages, it seemed that the bolts weren't supposed to be able to penetrate the ship's 'magical shield'.

            "The bolts are enchanted," Jarlaxle called to Entreri and Zaknafein from where he was, somewhere inside a stack of fixed-down crates.  Somehow, the mercenary leader had managed to retrieve one of the bolts, and was inspecting it with interest.  Entreri nodded – the both of them were in a somewhat safer position just inside one of the structures on the ship that led upstairs to the Captain's quarters or down to the rooms, cautiously looking around the door leading towards the deck.  

            Flashes of light and weird burning smells alerted them to the fact that the mages had retaliated, but the magic seemed to wash off barriers in front of their attackers.  

            "Did you bring ranged weapons along?" Zaknafein asked, poking Entreri, who jumped.

            "Yes, but they're in the chest in our room…"

            "These?" Kimmuriel's voice sounded somewhere behind them.  Turning, they saw the psionist, who was holding three longbows, bowstrings and several quivers, handing two of the longbows to them quickly.  At their questioning look, he shrugged.  "Jarlaxle informed me of the situation."

            "How'd you get into our room?" Entreri blinked, as he and Zaknafein proceeded to string the longbows.

            "The rooms," Kimmuriel said, slowly, as if talking to a retarded child, "Are mage-locked." He concentrated a little, and then the remaining longbows, bowstring and quiver disappeared. 

            "What in the…" Entreri blinked as people seemed to suddenly appear and file out into the deck.  Moving out a hand, he realized they were insubstantial, and in many cases, actually looked the same.  Quite quickly, images of himself, Zaknafein, Jarlaxle and Kimmuriel were also wandering around on the deck, holding weapons.  

            "Illusions," Kimmuriel said critically, looking at his doubles.  "Very good ones, as well.  No doubt from your gnome friend? I have heard that surface gnomes are naturally talented at illusions."

            "Well yes, but still, going out would be risky…"

            Kimmuriel pointed.  Zaknafein was already gone, and somewhere out there.  Squinting, he managed to see a black-skinned one among the gold-skinned ones in the illusion (since Iparken of course only saw them as sun-elves), unhurriedly notching an arrow and shooting, then mingling around before shooting again. The illusions were certainly good… at least five of them always shot at the same target as Zaknafein, and then mingled with the crowd, so it was never certain which one was shooting…

             With a curse at the stubbornness of dark elves, Entreri walked onto the deck nervously, along with Kimmuriel, who immediately went off to search for Jarlaxle.  Taking aim carefully and shooting, he downed a rider, the person clutching nervously at the arrow, toppling off his squawking steed, though missing the second and the third.  From the sounds of it, however, Jarlaxle and Zaknafein were having better luck than he.  It was not _his_ fault – longbows were not his strong point, and the gauntlet made holding a bow feel very odd.  Besides, he'd never really understood the precise mechanics of how the weapon worked, which is never a really good way of progressing to be good at said weapon.

            Another hail of crossbow bolts, which narrowly missed him, stitching through the illusions.  

            The sounds of more arrows – the mages had switched to longbows, especially the few elven ones on deck.

            Then a panicked shout, "They're attacking the balloon!" What was worse, some of the bolts that shot past were burning.  The deck began to catch fire…

            Water elementals appeared, pausing for a long while as the summoning mages gained control of them, then began drenching the flames, though there weren't enough of them, and if the fight continued, Entreri was quite sure that it would end in a burning hulk crashing down into the Starspire mountains.  The heat was uncomfortable, and the smoke was beginning to haze out his vision… 

            "We can't hit them without magic!" a mage shouted from somewhere.  "Lances – they're going to puncture the balloon!"

            "Just shoot," Jarlaxle said reassuringly, from somewhere.  Entreri frowned.  "Our mage will guide your arrows."

            That sounded like a lot of work for the mage.  Entreri shrugged, and shot.  His arrow flew straight and true – then abruptly curved upwards.  A squawk, and a giant crow plummeted past, arrow embedded inside one eye, its rider fiddling madly at the straps of the saddle.  More crows plummeted past, until only those who had not been above trying to puncture the balloon were left. A few more shots, and even they turned tail to leave. 

            The illusions stayed until the raiders were out of sight, and then dissipated, and mages raced around, hastily creating water to put out the fires.  Entreri lowered his bow, then saw Zaknafein approaching, apparently unscathed.  Zaknafein looked him over quickly, checking for injury, then said critically, "I had not thought your skill with other weapons was so… unpolished."

            "My normal occupation does not involve shooting at moving targets on a flying ship," Entreri said dryly.  "I _normally_ get to fight close up, on solid ground."

            Zaknafein snorted.  "That is no excuse.  You should be proficient in all weapons, just in case."

            "Well, I haven't needed to use a longbow since as long as I can remember," Entreri retorted.  "Bows are not truly required in a city, where they can easily hit bystanders."

            Thankfully, an extended argument with Zaknafein about weaponry was delayed when Iparken appeared next to him, the gnome captain looking tired but relieved.  "What was that all about?" Entreri asked him.

            "They looked like any Air Corsair, but those normally attack the non-Halruaan Flying Galleons," Iparken said, "I don't know why these decided to attack here, though they must have been well-funded.  These bolts had an anti-shield dweomer on each of them, and that's very expensive.  All these bolts can probably pay for the repairs and still make a tidy profit.  If we ever manage to get them out of the woodwork."

            "Your illusions were very impressive," Zaknafein said, complimentarily, interrupting Iparken before he could mourn about the damage done to his beautiful vessel.

            "Thank you.  Your skill with the bow is also very impressive," Iparken replied, though he grinned impishly at Entreri.  "I believe it was worth all the damage to my ship to know that the Great Assassin of Calimport is not infallible in his weaponry skills."

            Entreri groaned.  "All right, all right…"

            "In any case, we're going to be delayed longer in Athkatla than I'd thought.  We'd need to get more crew – they killed quite a few of ours, and it'd be touch-and-go getting to Athkatla as it is – and although the balloon isn't damaged, the fire hit some of the equipment.  You might have to ride to Cloakwood – it'd be faster.  Once we reach the Wealdath we'd be safer – the elves there keep a watch out, and we've paid our fees to them already."

            Entreri sighed.  "Just what we needed."

            "So long as your Corsairs do not return," Zaknafein replied, turning to see Jarlaxle approach, supporting – half-carrying, actually – a very exhausted-looking Kimmuriel, who was leaning heavily on his master.  On closer inspection, the psionist was actually unconscious.  "You're alive." For some reason, that statement sounded vaguely disappointed.

            Jarlaxle grinned.  "So are you, I see." He nodded at Iparken in greeting.

            "You have friends of great power," Iparken told Entreri.  "I have never seen anyone guide more than three arrows before.  Is it a new Elven spell?"

            "He just managed to tire himself out for the whole day," Jarlaxle said blandly, ignoring the question, "So if the Corsairs return, you may be on your own." With a nod at Entreri and Zaknafein, he disappeared down below. 

            Zaknafein and Entreri exchanged a glance.  No doubt Kimmuriel had purposefully pushed the limit with that endeavor… for whatever reason.  "Can you ride?" Entreri asked Zaknafein curiously.

            "Of course," Zaknafein said icily.  The coldness of his tone could have frozen over the Calim Desert.

            Iparken laughed.  "All elves can ride, Entreri," he said, winking at Zaknafein. "Like all of them can shoot a bow and wield a longsword." 

            Before Zaknafein could say anything that would break their cover – thankfully, Kimmuriel's illusion was binding on them and did not depend on his state of consciousness – Entreri muttered something hasty about having to check on their 'friend', and dragged Zaknafein off, leaving the mages to reparations.

            Once safely in their room, Zaknafein sprawled onto the sofa, closing his eyes.  "That was interesting," he commented.

            "Didn't you say you didn't like flying?"

            "The danger always adds to the thrill."

            Entreri prayed for patience, closing the door.  "Do you think they will come back?"

            "That is what I would have done," Zaknafein said thoughtfully.  "Preferably once night falls." 

            "Thank you for boosting my confidence," Entreri said sourly, "And I was hoping everything would go well on this trip."  
            "So you might as well rest till night, then keep a lookout," Zaknafein said, slipping out of his armor, cloak and boots while still in a recumbent position on the sofa, to Entreri's mild astonishment, then beckoned to the assassin.

            "I don't think we can both fit on that," Entreri replied dryly.  "And besides, it's going to be damned uncomfortable even for just one of us."

            "Try."

            A short while later, and a considerably less-dressed Entreri could feel a cramp forming on his right leg and arm.  Zaknafein, on the other hand, seemed perfectly comfortable, half on the sofa and half on top of Entreri, head supported by a pillow.  Entreri muttered irritably, squirming, then felt Zaknafein grip his right arm.

            "Move your leg like that any longer and we will not be getting any rest," Zaknafein murmured. 

            "And whose idea was this, precisely?" Entreri retorted.  "Considering the bed is only over there…"

            "Mmmm.  Because once we do get on the bed together, sleep is normally the last thing on my mind."

            "Right…" Entreri drawled.  "So why doesn't one of us sleep there, and one of us sleep here?"

            "Because I want to sleep with you.  Now, do you want to talk, or sleep?"

            Entreri was just about to say he didn't feel like sleeping, but since that might cause Zaknafein to proceed to do things to his person, he replied instead, "Do you know Jarlaxle and Kimmuriel very well?"

            "Sadly, yes."

            "So do you understand why Jarlaxle is treating Kimmuriel like… like a…"  
            "Toy?" Zaknafein supplied.

            "Well yes, but I wouldn't have put it that badly."

            "Why not? I would."

            "Because I think he actually does feel something for Kimmuriel, that's why."

            "He does?" Zaknafein sounded amused.  "Actually, you may be right, but not the way you think."

            "Well?"

            "Jarlaxle has talked to me about Kimmuriel before, repeatedly.  I cannot remember when," Zaknafein hesitated.  "Probably because I hardly ever listen to him closely unless it involves things I am interested in."

            "What did he say?"

            "A lot of things." Zaknafein replied thoughtfully.  "He said that… when he first saw Kimmuriel, Kimmuriel was still one of the favored sons of Kyorl Oblodra. He had gone to Oblodra on business, and Kimmuriel had been standing just over to the right.  Jarlaxle had actually thought Kimmuriel hated him on sight."

            "Really."

            "Because Kimmuriel immediately seemed as though he wanted to leave the area," Zaknafein chuckled.  "Though there are obviously other ways of interpreting that."

            Entreri cursed himself silently for blushing.  "What about Jarlaxle?"

            "What about him?"

            "Did he dislike Kimmuriel on sight, too?"

            "Actually… He said he wanted to _possess_ Kimmuriel on sight, and it was all he could do to stop himself from dragging Kimmuriel off immediately," Zaknafein said, apparently very amused.  "I found it incredibly amusing, especially since he had a hell of a time trying to keep _that_ from all the psionists in the room.  It took him a while to orchestrate Kimmuriel's fall from his Matron's grace, and his subsequent entry into Bregan D'aerthe.  Perhaps he is… bored now that he _has_ Kimmuriel just where he wanted him from the beginning."

            "I doubt it," Entreri mused.  "He said some things the past few days which hinted that he feels something more.  Which is why I don't understand how he can keep hurting Kimmuriel."

            "Because he finds it amusing?" Zaknafein said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. "And besides, how are you so sure that he is referring to Kimmuriel, or whether he is just lying between his teeth?"

**

            Kimmuriel woke up hazily, and winced at the pain immediately apparent at his temple.  Probing the spot gingerly, he turned over, realizing he was on the bed, and as far as he could tell, under the blankets he wasn't wearing anything. The next thing he did, of course, was to check for Jarlaxle – thankfully, his master seemed fine, and was sitting at the desk, busily writing, and dressed only in his hat, some bits of jewelry and pants.  Reassured, the psionist closed his eyes.  How had he gotten knocked out? The last thing he remembered was trying to guide all the arrows at once, knowing he'd burn out if he did it for more than one wave, but also knowing that he wanted to die.  

            Last night's conversations had been particularly bad.  Jarlaxle had returned extremely late, and the psychic blocking due to the eye patch had just caused Kimmuriel to worry so much he couldn't sleep. Somehow one thing had led to another, ending with Jarlaxle's flat announcement that not only did he only see Kimmuriel as a plaything at the most, he also found his professed love 'inconvenient' and 'tiresome' if all it did was to make Kimmuriel try and restrict Jarlaxle's actions.  Jarlaxle had proceeded to ignore him the entire night, and it was worse when in the morning the mercenary acted as though nothing had happened… 

            He'd wanted to die, but he wanted to die doing something for Jarlaxle, so at least… at least what? He very much doubted that it would cause the mercenary to care.

            "Are you awake yet?" Jarlaxle asked from the table.

            "Yes," Kimmuriel said, looking at him.  "How did I…"

            "I knocked you out," Jarlaxle explained calmly.  "It was rather obvious what you were attempting to do."

            Kimmuriel flushed, biting his lip.  "You did not… want me to die?"

            Jarlaxle sighed.  "Perhaps you _are_ a lot less intelligent than I gave you credit for.  Do you know how difficult it is to find a good psionist to genuinely join Bregan D'aerthe without any outward intentions? Now that Oblodra has been destroyed?"

            "Is it only that, then?" Kimmuriel asked sadly.

            "What did you think it was?" 

            "I…. It doesn't matter." Kimmuriel turned away, to try and hide his grief.

            "Were you hoping I secretly… loved you?" Jarlaxle sounded amused.  "That I cared enough for you personally such that I could not bear the thought of you dying?"

            Kimmuriel refused to answer that, instead, he pulled up the blankets and pretended to sleep.  Jarlaxle, however, continued.  "There is some of that." Kimmuriel blinked at this, but the next few words dashed his hopes.  "Where else can I find such a beautiful toy?"

            Kimmuriel closed his eyes, hoping Jarlaxle would stop talking, wondering if he could die from the pain the mercenary was causing him.  Jarlaxle, however, had put down his pen, and walked over, sitting down next to Kimmuriel on the bed, gently stroking Kimmuriel's cheek.  "Someone so strong and so vulnerable, and so _damned_ beautiful… so much like a doll." He hooked his fingers through the collar, forcing Kimmuriel to open his eyes and face him, lowering his own head downwards.  "Even your little attempted rebellions are delicious."

            Unable to stop himself, Kimmuriel's lips parted, begging for a kiss.  Jarlaxle teasingly brushed his mouth against the other elf's, briefly, before letting go of the collar.  "I will not tolerate such behavior from you in the future," he said pleasantly, steel under the silky tone.  

            "You drive me to it," Kimmuriel said, without thinking, then flinched at Jarlaxle's darkening expression.  "I… apologize.  I did not mean that."

            "I would have thought you old enough to take your own responsibility for your own actions," Jarlaxle said coldly.  "And certainly old enough not to require someone to tell you this."

            Kimmuriel shrank back as far as he could.  "_Please_, just forget I said that."

            "So you can carelessly make accusations then assume others would overlook them?"

            "N-no…"

            "If I 'drive you' to self-destruction, then would it not be better if I spoke with you as little as possible? I could even arrange for separate rooms, if you wished." Jarlaxle caught the collar and used it to drag Kimmuriel closer, kissing him roughly before saying, "You _begged_ to come along," he reminded the psionist harshly.

            "I know," Kimmuriel breathed, helplessly trying futilely to obtain another kiss, gripping Jarlaxle's shoulders.  "No separate rooms… I love you – I want to be with you so much…"

            "You do not seem to be enjoying the experience very much." Jarlaxle kept Kimmuriel just out of reach, "Are you?"

            "I…"

            "And dying would be quite a permanent way of leaving me, yes? Since I have no intention of dying if I can help it, you might end up spending the afterlife… alone."

            "I just wanted the pain to stop," Kimmuriel said, forcing that notion out of his mind.  "An eternity of solitude seemed better than your contempt."

            "Contempt?" Jarlaxle asked thoughtfully, "I do not feel contempt for you. Just the occasional exasperation, but mainly…" he slid one hand down Kimmuriel's chest in a way that caused the psionist's breathing to quicken.  "You amuse me."

            "You enjoy watching my pain?"

            "In a sense," Jarlaxle said, kissing Kimmuriel more leisurely, and then pulling him into his lap.  "But I enjoy watching your pleasure as well."

            "It has been at least four days," Kimmuriel said pleadingly, gasping as Jarlaxle's hands began wandering.

            "Has it?" Jarlaxle smiled.  "I did not notice."

            "Please…"

            Jarlaxle pushed Kimmuriel off his lap, then got off and walked back to the desk.  "Perhaps later."  
            "Master…!"

            "You are quite free to seek satisfaction with someone else," Jarlaxle replied mildly, as he began writing. 

            "I would not do that!" Kimmuriel wormed back under the blankets, suddenly feeling very cold.  
            "Your loss, then."

            Kimmuriel bit his lip.  "Do _you_… have others?"

            Jarlaxle raised an eyebrow.  "If I said 'yes', would it hurt?"  
            Kimmuriel hesitated, and then said, "Yes, it would." The very thought of the possibility hurt like a knife wound, and Jarlaxle twisted it by not giving him an answer.

            "But I do not belong to you."

            "That is true, _but_…"

            "As you are free to have your way with any other than myself, so am I," Jarlaxle pointed out.  "I will _not_ be tied down to anyone, or anything."

"I know that," Kimmuriel said quietly.  "Was that not what you were trying to prove by leaving to the Surface for so long?"

Jarlaxle seemed to ignore that. "I have not as yet found any other playthings as amusing as yourself, however.  Though if you were to die… then obviously I would seek my amusements elsewhere."

            "So it would not matter to you if I died?"

            "Have you been listening to me, Kimmuriel?" Kimmuriel was stubbornly silent, so Jarlaxle continued, "Of course it would matter to me.  It would be extremely inconvenient to…"

            "Inconvenient." Kimmuriel pronounced slowly, as if tasting the word, filling it with a wealth of misery, pain and self-mockery.  

            Jarlaxle looked up and stared at Kimmuriel for a while thoughtfully.  The psionist was actually trembling, eyes tightly shut.  With a sigh of exasperation, the mercenary stood up and walked over, then sat on the bed and leaned over the psionist.  "Must you force me to talk to you?" he asked, in a low voice, suddenly menacing.

            "I am not _forcing_ you to talk to me," Kimmuriel replied, refusing to open his eyes.

            "Then stop it."

            "Stop what? Stop hurting? I _cannot _help it!"

            Jarlaxle took a deep breath, as if trying to be patient.  "I am _this _close to finding another room, Kimmuriel…" He blinked as Kimmuriel abruptly pulled him down into an embrace.  Shifting a little, he decided to humor the other elf, and somehow managed to maneuver under the blankets to a more comfortable position.  The skewed hat he placed carefully on the bedside table, before settling next to Kimmuriel. Thankfully, the psionist kept silent, and they both managed to drift off into fitful dreams.

**

            Despite Zaknafein's gloomy predictions, there were actually no nighttime attacks, and the ship managed to limp to Athkatla without incident.  The warrior actually seemed disappointed when they docked at the merchant city.  The wind had changed, and they had made good time, though they would now have to purchase horses.  Travel documents, forged and otherwise, had been examined by the authorities, and other than suspicious looks at Entreri, they strangely enough managed to pass.  Money made for the best diplomatic language.  To his great relief, Kimmuriel's use of illusion slipped by the magical sensors that Athkatla had – here, one had to pay to use magic, and Entreri did not feel like sponsoring Kimmuriel to the tune of five thousand gold pieces. 

            Getting rooms at the Crown Inn, currently the best inn in Athkatla, were somewhat more challenging, especially when Zaknafein asked for a shared room with a single bed for him and Entreri, and Jarlaxle followed suit.  Still, these were more modern times, and other than an extremely odd expression on the innkeeper's face, they managed to get rather good rooms for the night.  Tomorrow they would go to the marketplace to find horses for the ride to Cloakwood.

            Iparken had apologized to Entreri about the delay, but he said he hoped to get to Baldur's Gate as soon as possible; therefore they would try and meet there as planned.  If they took longer than expected – well, a short holiday in that city would not be too bad. 

            News traveled fast in a city where information was gold, and Entreri looked up after an extremely good dinner into a politely grinning, black-hooded face.  Zaknafein frowned, and put his hand on the hilt of his sword in reflex.  Even Jarlaxle and Kimmuriel seemed to react subtly…

            To head off anything violent, Entreri spoke up first.  "Are you from the Shadow Thieves?" he asked conversationally.  Whispers attracted attention.

            "Yes, and our leader, Thorkin, would like to speak to you," the Shadow Thief said.  "We got your message that you would be visiting."

            At Jarlaxle's questioning look, Entreri shrugged.  "To make things easier the Rogues guilds – that is to say, thieves, assassins and us other unsavory sorts, often inform the guild of the territory we visit.  It is a little inconvenient in Calimport, since there are still quite a few guilds, but in other areas it's easier."

            "Ah," Jarlaxle nodded.  "Will we be required to go with you?"

            "Your friends weren't invited, but they can come," the Shadow Thief offered, still very politely.  All the Rogues Guilds were now very polite to each other, since they hadn't all figured out what to do with the lawyers and the continent-wide Courts systems, and therefore were more or less united under a flag of confusion against a common foe.

            "Does Thorkin want to speak to me now?" Entreri asked.

            "Whenever it is convenient.  I will wait for you."

            "I will accompany you," Zaknafein said firmly.  

            Entreri raised an eyebrow at him, and then shrugged.  "Fine, whatever." Besides, the Shadow Thieves' strange and convoluted headquarters always made him feel a little nervous.  Come to think of it, so did most Rogues headquarters he had visited all over Faerun when he had still liked to travel.  "Kelend'ril?" He asked, using Jarlaxle's faked name.  The Crown had a system of guest book-signing, and strangely enough, either Kimmuriel had guided their hands, or all three Dark Elves could write Elvish, signing off their assumed names in its characteristically beautiful script.

            "Iana'thas and I are tired," Jarlaxle said, leaning back in his chair.  Kimmuriel looked up at him, questioningly.  "I think we will withdraw for the night."

            "All right," Entreri nodded, signaling the waiter to come with the bill, and then taking care of it before standing up.  "Let's go, then." He shot a backward glance at 'Kelend'ril'.  "Don't do anything… disruptive."

            Jarlaxle smiled mischievously. "You worry too much, Entreri."

            "And no wonder."

**

            The streets of Athkatla at night heading down towards the Docks, where the Shadow Thieves' headquarters were located, smelled more and more of fish, like docks all over the world.  Entreri hated the smell of fish, despite the fact that Calimport traded in them, and he was carefully trying not to show it, but Zaknafein seemed unconcerned, instead sweeping the area with suspicious eyes as if expecting the shadows to attack him.  However, since that was natural behavior for Zaknafein, probably conditioned through years of living in a world where piwafwis were relatively common, Entreri managed to ignore it.

            The streetlights' lamp oils were more refined than the last time he had been here – ten years? Fifteen? They did not add their greasy scents to the other smells of the docks – the fish, unwashed sailors, the sea, and the filth dumped into the waters.  Civilization had advanced, but people still had to learn that their rubbish when thrown into the waters would simply stay there and haunt them.  Athkatla had not changed much – uniform, sandstone-hued flagstones paved gracefully wide curved staircases down to the docks, slimy at portions and speckled with seagull droppings and miscellaneous offal.  The difference was – now that due to the Courts, the Guilds all had to become 'official', the Shadow Thieves' headquarters was somewhat more apparent.  Some renovations had been done to the previously precariously stilted, many-storied building, making it look slightly more respectable.  A tattered black flag, its insignia no longer apparent, floated in the sea breeze atop the slated roof of the gaunt-looking set of buildings, and the guards in front of the building looked somewhat more becoming in their uniform.

            The interior seemed exactly the same, though – dimly lit, smelling of lamp oil, weapons, food, wine and something which was probably illicit drugs, with a strangely large number of hooded people talking, playing cards, or caring for their equipment, with no one directly staring at the newcomers, but Entreri could feel the sudden weight of their attention.  Following his guide inwards into the guild, he pretended not to notice, though Zaknafein seemed somewhat tenser than usual. 

            The air got cooler as they descended down narrow flights of stairs into a winding room, where whispered phrases and strange paths on apparently perfectly clear corridors led them past hidden traps into a wide square room, in which an elderly halfling male sat on a high chair, examining a brown lacquered box under mage-lights, wearing well-crafted leather armor and pants that nearly flowed over his small, uncovered feet.  Guards at the doors looked at them, gazes lingering disapprovingly on their weapons.

            "Thorkin?" their guide asked respectfully.

            "Yeah I know," Thorkin waved a hand, holding the box up to one eye.  "You can go."

            The guide bowed, and left.  Thorkin finally put the box on a neat, organized desk and smiled at Entreri.  "How're you doing?"

            "Fine," Entreri nodded, exchanging pleasantries with the halfling, "You don't seem to be doing too bad for yourself, either."

            "Eh, the previous owner had little ability involving guild profits," the halfling said pleasantly, "Blackmailing adventurers to get rid of supernatural threats is all very well, but adventurers are just as quick to turn on blackmailers, and that was that.  It was such a mess.  You know, I think before he died the previous owner actually offered to just hand over his magical artifacts if they would spare his life, but – don't quote me on this – they said something about 'experience', and killed him anyway."

            "Yes, I heard about that," Entreri said wryly.  It had taken years for the Shadow Thieves in Athkatla to get back together, and if he remembered correctly, there had been rumors of Drizzt's presence mixed up somewhere in the battle against the supernatural threat, whatever it had been. He had actually vaguely considered going down to Athkatla to take a look, but hadn't bothered. Besides, he didn't really like the merchant city.  "What did you want to see me for?"

            "Well, just a friendly discussion as to what you're planning to do in Athkatla, that sort of thing."

            "Didn't I say in my message that I was just passing through?" Entreri asked curiously.

            "Well yes, but your ride seems a little disabled at the moment."

            "Oh." Entreri and a bored but thankfully quiet Zaknafein sat down at the tattered, suspiciously stained dark in patches chairs that Thorkin waved them to.  "We were planning to solve that by purchasing horses at the Marketplace tomorrow, a few travel supplies, then leaving immediately."

            "So short a stay in my fair city?" Thorkin grinned.

            "You'd forgive me, but your fair city is only fair in the rich merchant's quarters," Entreri said dryly.  "The rest of it requires a good lesson in sewage disposal."

            "So does Calimport… and just about every Human city, I should think," Thorkin smiled.

            "And how would a halfling construct a city?"

            "More neatly.  But we prefer your cities, anyway.  More places for someone small to hide and steal.  If you're just really passing through, then I guess there'd be nothing much I should do.  By the way, what are you doing, if you don't mind me asking?"

            "Checking out a group of inconvenient mages along the Sword Coast."

            "Which one of a million?"

            Entreri grinned.  Rogues generally had a deep suspicion of magic, which could steal items without much 'skill' or 'effort', if need be.  "This one hasn't gotten to the naming stage yet, I think."

            "Oh good.  One more group named 'Silver Shadow of Wisdom' or something like that, and I'd start putting bounties on their heads."

            "You rogues do not have particularly drab names, either," Zaknafein commented dryly. 

            Thorkin looked at him curiously, then at Entreri.  "I heard that you've been attracting a lot of friends lately."

            Entreri wondered if the halfling had put emphasis on the word 'attracting', but didn't remark on it.  "Everyone has to start sometime."

            "Is this Zaknafein?" Thorkin chuckled and held up both hands when Zaknafein suddenly sat up straighter, feet flat on the ground, hands on his swords.  "Don't worry, it isn't public knowledge."

            "Just about all the large Rogues guilds know about it already, I would think," Entreri said wearily.

            "The same way you know about all our dirty little secrets, as well," Thorkin grinned.  "Updated information about each other is always a necessity."

            "So do you know what we're doing, really?"

            "No.  As far as I gathered, it had nothing to do with Athkatla, only with Cloakwood, so I didn't pay for the rest of the information.  Now, something more important," Thorkin paused.  "Do you want some tea, or spiced wine?"


	8. One of Each

Part 8

One of each

            "I still think you should kill the halfling," Zaknafein muttered for about the fifteenth time that morning.  Thorkin had unnerved the dark elven warrior immensely with his piercing wit.  "He…"

            "Knows too much? So do… just about all the Rogues Guilds," Entreri replied wearily.  "And I'm not even going to _talk _about the Courts.  Zaknafein, I'm getting tired of this conversation.  Just because Thorkin knows all about us doesn't mean he is that much of a threat.  In fact, I'm rather good friends with him."

            "If you kill him you'd warn the other Guilds off buying information."

            "Yes, and probably set a precedent for other Guilds to kill me as well."

            "I will not let them kill you."

            Entreri purposefully let out a deep, exasperated sigh, and looked around for Jarlaxle.  The mercenary leader was strangely enough not paying attention to him, however, and was riding several yards behind them, next to Kimmuriel's mount, a spirited mare which, sensing its rider's inexperience and nervousness, was getting remarkably skittish. In any case, Jarlaxle had been strangely conscientious about Kimmuriel's welfare since they had left Athkatla, for mysterious reasons that Entreri didn't want to know about.  Kimmuriel, unsurprisingly, seemed far happier (and therefore, a lot more stable) with all the attention, though.

            "Are you listening?" Zaknafein's voice snapped Entreri out of his guilty speculations, and the assassin hastily schooled his face into one of solemnity.

            "Of course."

            Zaknafein snorted at him, then glanced back at Kimmuriel and Jarlaxle, guessing correctly at the heart of Entreri's curiosity.  "What about them?"

            "What about us?" Jarlaxle asked immediately, raising an eyebrow.  Entreri contented himself with glaring at Zaknafein as he tried to find a good way to salvage the situation. 

            "Nothing," Entreri said, as ingenuously as possible, failing to come up with said good way.  Zaknafein chuckled, the evil bastard.  Even Jarlaxle seemed amused now.   "I was, uh, thinking that we should stop around Crimmor for the day."

            "All the monsters seemed to have been cleared out of the area," Jarlaxle said, sounding disappointed.  The roads were now wide, clean, paved, and ran through the mountains and the Greenfields with impunity.  Progress made it such that a ride from Athkatla to Cloakwood now took much shorter than it should have been, since roads had been cut through the Cloud Peaks.  The tollbooths had by now made far more than they had spent using magic and dwarves to slice safe caravan ways through the mountains.

            "We could always fight each other," Zaknafein suggested, eyeing Entreri, who pretended to ignore him and ostensibly fixed his eyes on the road.  

            Jarlaxle laughed.  "What our mutual friend probably wishes to say about that is that it is far too fine a morning to be driving each other's faces into the dirt."

            "It is?" Zaknafein looked around disdainfully.  "There is too much light."

            "Ah, but for some reason your coexistence with Sam allows you to see perfectly in Surface light, while Kimmuriel and I have to make do with strange spells." Jarlaxle reached over and pressed gloved fingers over Kimmuriel's hand, almost affectionately.  The psionist looked up at him, tilted his head as if in questioning, and they kissed, Jarlaxle expertly riding closer and somehow managing to prevent Kimmuriel's mount from panicking at the same time.

            Hands began to wander, and Entreri coughed politely.  "I do not think you should be doing anything while riding, Jarlaxle."

            Jarlaxle grinned as he broke the kiss.  "Why not? It is a long ride, and I get bored easily."

            "Doing that… on a horse?" Entreri asked, fascinated despite himself. 

            "It _is_ possible." Zaknafein commented clinically.  "I could show you, if you like."

            Entreri stared at him, ascertained quickly that Zaknafein wasn't joking, and shook his head furiously, backing his horse away (thank goodness for Handle Animal +9).  "No.  And don't come near me either."

            "It is an entire day to our next stop," Zaknafein said, smirking like a predator.  "And looking at an endless stretch of river and sparse vegetation can only hold my attention for so long."

            "This is your fault," Entreri said accusingly, looking back at Jarlaxle and Kimmuriel, who were watching the two of them with great interest.

            "No, no, do not mind us," Jarlaxle said genially.  "Do continue."

**

            No sound in the dark room other than the susurration of people trying furtively to arrange heavy robes into a more comfortable drape.  Finally, the voice of their leader, which led smoothly to the melding of other voices into a peculiar sort of harmony. 

            "They are definitely approaching far sooner than we have expected."

            "It is the mercenary."

            "He has urged action."

            "Left to themselves, the assassin and the warrior would have waited until the merging posed real problems."

            "Are we ready?"

            This last question seemed to tie off the discussion, and the voices spiraled into nothing.

**

            They stopped at a 'travel inn' at Crimmor, just one of a huge chain of 'travel inn's that were spreading across Faerun like some weird creeping plague.  Still, if one didn't mind the fact that every one looked nearly exactly the same, the food was expensive, and the beer tasted as though someone had merely poured honey into water and left it to rot for a year, the beds were clean, and the rates were relatively cheap.  The owner of 'travel inn', a rather seedy-looking human whose name Entreri couldn't remember, was actually extremely rich and living in Baldur's Gate, something which Entreri had taken careful note of one day when he had drunk the beer in Calimport's 'travel inn' out of curiosity.

            "What are you looking at?" he asked Jarlaxle, noticing that the mercenary had been darting curious glances around the 'travel inn' since they had entered the place and Entreri had given them a short run-down about the place.

            "I wonder if this would work in the Underdark," Jarlaxle replied mildly. 

            "Going into inns already?"

            "I actually own quite a few," Jarlaxle replied absently.  "They generally make good money as well as a good place to hide."

            "As I am sure you would know," Entreri said dryly.  "Sam, are you sure you're full?"

            For mysterious reasons Zaknafein had turned into Sam a short while before they had entered Crimmor proper, and Entreri, who had thankfully been paying attention, was just close enough to grab the reins of Zaknafein's horse so it wouldn't do something so untoward as to panic and throw off its new rider.  Still, at least asking for a single room didn't raise any eyebrows once Entreri said Sam was his younger sister.  

            Besides, he was relatively thankful that it was Sam – although he'd managed to evade Zaknafein's attentions on the entire ride to Crimmor, despite that – or because of that – he was dead tired, and wanted to sleep.  

            "Yeah," Sam said, then pouted when Entreri arched an eyebrow.  "I don't eat that much!"

            "And the food is nothing spectacular," Jarlaxle agreed.  "The young lady has great taste."

            Sam blushed furiously.  "I… just don't eat much."

            "And so modest, too," Jarlaxle pressed on, with a look of mock worship.  

            Entreri sighed.  "Stop teasing her, Kelend'ril."

            "It is hard to resist," Jarlaxle grinned.  "Your little 'sister' is too cute."

            "Don't try anything," Entreri said, finding it hard not to smile.  Jarlaxle's mischievous mood seemed contagious.  "You already have Iana'thas."

            "That is true," Jarlaxle said, pulling 'Iana'thas' over and licking his cheek.  "And he is a lot more delicious than anything this inn can offer."

            Entreri buried his head in his hands.  "And I'd thought we would manage to pass through all these places without attracting attention."

            "Hmm." Jarlaxle chuckled, tilting his head so Kimmuriel could nuzzle his neck.  "All the attention I see is a lot of disappointed females."

            "That one's looking at you, Unc… er, older brother," Sam noted brightly.  "Oh, and she's coming over right now.  Hey, she's pretty!"

            As if this couldn't get any worse…

            Entreri lowered his head.  "Sam… can you do me a big favor?"

            "Yep?"

            "Do your best not to let Zaknafein out, okay?"

            "Okay." Sam grinned.  "Changing in the middle of everyone is sure to be embarrassing."

            "That's an understatement."

            Entreri looked up into the face of an admittedly very pretty human female, dressed prudently in (proper) leather armor, a hooded gray cloak, high, comfortable black walking boots, and a short leather skirt that showed some of her long, shapely legs.  Arms were bared to show tanned skin to the elbow, after which soft leather, dyed-red gloves made for a flamboyant sheath for her shapely arm.  The untrained eye would think she was unarmed, but Entreri estimated at least three knives in the outfit, judging by the slight bulges and pulls in the cloth.

            "Good evening," the female said in a soft voice. "Do you mind if I join you?"

            "Of course not," Jarlaxle said, before Entreri could reply.  "Take a seat, please."

            The female sat next to Entreri, with a shy smile.  "My name is Marie."

            "Glad to meet you," Entreri muttered, glancing at Sam, who was looking slightly worried at something.  Now _that_ made him feel _very_ nervous.  "My name is Senar, and this is my sister Senae.  Those two elves indulging in a public display of affection with no regard for proper mannerisms are Kelend'ril and Iana'thas."

            'Kelend'ril' grinned wickedly, doing something under the table that caused 'Iana'thas' to suddenly twist and press his body against him and stifle a moan against his master's neck – thankfully not audible to any other patrons of the inn's bar room.  Entreri sighed deeply, turning to the woman, who seemed more amused than anything.  "Sorry about that." Thankfully, Sam wasn't paying attention – she was staring at the roast turning on a spit in the fireplace to the far left in fascination.  It had been occupying her for quite a while. 

            "Oh, it's fine.  You might have problems if they tried this in the Northern regions, though."

            "One would have thought they had modernized by now," Jarlaxle said mildly, as if all he'd done for the past few minutes was discussing the weather instead of doing things to Kimmuriel that should be private.

            "You have been there before?"

            "Years ago," Jarlaxle waved it off. "And only very shortly."

            "And you? If you don't mind me asking?" Marie smiled at Entreri.

            "I have been there quite often," Entreri said slowly, wondering how they had gotten to this type of conversation.  "Why do you ask?"

            "Because I live around there… and if you people are regular visitors to the region, you could… drop by," Marie said in a purr.  "As it is… I was despairing of good company tonight."

            "Sorry, I'm rather busy tonight," Entreri said hastily, firmly pushing off the fingers trailing up his thigh.  "And I have to look after my sister.  She uh, gets frightened sleeping alone."

            "No I don't!" Sam said indignantly at the perceived jab at her courage.  Entreri shot her a look, and she grinned sheepishly.  "Uh. But I get lonely."

            "See?" Entreri said desperately, realizing that Marie had suddenly sat a lot closer. 

            "I like men who care," Marie said with a sultry smile.  "And I am quite sure that she would not mind one night by herself…"

            Entreri looked at Jarlaxle and Kimmuriel for help.  The one good thing his predicament had provided was that those two had stopped to watch the 'entertainment'.  Jarlaxle shrugged slightly, smirking, with a 'you owe me' glint to his eye.  "Actually, lady Marie… I believe my friend Senar's mate might object to you keeping him company for tonight.  He is prone to jealousy."

            " 'He'?" Marie looked at Entreri in disappointment.

            Entreri nodded a little too enthusiastically.  "Yeah.  I don't want to get you into trouble.  And… I am not interested in anyone else," he added quickly.

            Marie chuckled.  "Ah well.  It seems lately that all the handsome guys swing the other way.  Though if you ever want to convert back…" she blew him a goodnight kiss, and swayed off, now disinterested.

            Entreri breathed a sigh of relief.  "Thanks, Kelend'ril."

            Jarlaxle laughed.  "Explaining a transformation into Zaknafein would have been quite difficult."

            "Before we attract any more weird company, I suggest we retreat to our rooms.  And lock the doors." Entreri said, getting up from the table quickly.  Hopefully Zaknafein would not make anything of this.

**

            Sam didn't change back to Zaknafein in the room, such that Entreri felt mildly worried.  "Is something wrong with him?" he asked her, once he had closed the door.

            Sam bounced onto the bed, and then hugged a pillow.  "Don't know.  He didn't say anything at all when you were with that lady, though."

            "Right, now I'm worried," Entreri sighed. "Do you know why he switched to you?"

            "No idea," Sam said thoughtfully.  "I was actually having a nice, relaxing time on the field, too."

            Entreri sighed, removing his armor carefully and putting it on a chair, then his weapons and boots.  After washing up, he commented,  "So long as it had nothing to do with this afternoon."

            "Well, you got a reaction there," Sam said, then asked innocently, "What happened this afternoon? I wasn't looking."

            Entreri rubbed his temples and prayed for patience.  "Nothing, other than I didn't want to do that in public and _certainly_ not in front of Jarlaxle and Kimmuriel." _Especially_ not in front of them.

            Climbing under the sheets and closing his eyes, he muttered, "And I refuse to do anything I do not want to do just because he wants to have fun.  Goodnight, Sam."

            Sam said a goodnight somewhere over his head, then climbed under the blankets and went to sleep as well, curling into a ball out of strange habit.  Entreri watched her until she fell asleep, and then turned over carefully, closing his eyes.  Zaknafein got upset over the weirdest things, and he was actually relatively used to the little temper 'tantrums' the dark elf pulled.  For someone supposedly so old, Zaknafein was occasionally prone to mildly juvenile behavior, possibly because being a warrior tended to produce more of whatever made males very male (testosterone, but science in Faerun isn't very advanced yet). 

            Too tired to really consider why Zaknafein seemed to act oddly whenever Entreri refused to do certain things, the assassin fell asleep.  After an hour had passed, the figure of Sam wavered and turned into Zaknafein, who removed his clothing down to pants, and pressed against Entreri, draping an arm around the assassin's waist, slipping his hand under the shirt and stroking his stomach.

            Entreri woke up immediately, blinking in confusion, then relaxed when he registered who was holding him.  "Damn it, Zaknafein, your fingers are _bloody_ cold," he muttered, leaning back against the dark elf's chest.  At least _that _was warm.

            Zaknafein chuckled.  "You could elect to… heat them up," he whispered suggestively into Entreri's ear.

            "Because of your… antics this afternoon I'm too tired, what with having to stay ahead of you, on the road, and handle an increasingly confused horse all at the same time," Entreri replied dryly.  "So go to sleep."

            "Did you like that… female?" Zaknafein said then, quite suddenly, his voice a little uncertain.

            Entreri groaned.  "Must we have these kinds of talks when I want to sleep?"

            "She was attractive."

            "Did _you_ like her?" Entreri responded.

            There was a short pause, before Zaknafein murmured, "Not the way I like you."

            "Well then, I didn't like her the same way I like you, either." Entreri closed his eyes.  If Zaknafein wanted to be cryptic, that was fine by him, especially when all he wanted to do was return to oblivion.

            "At least she was not wearing perfume, or she would have gotten it all over you," Zaknafein muttered.  

            "Half of the time I smell like _you_." 

            "I wonder if you know how much that excites me," Zaknafein purred, rubbing against Entreri.  The assassin sighed, wondering if this sudden mood change was good or… probably not.

            "I told you I'm too tired.  And besides, if we do this, how the hell am I supposed to ride tomorrow?"

            "That would not be my problem, would it?"

            "_Zaknafein_… oh fuck."

            "I knew you would see it my way eventually."

**

            Kimmuriel lay in bed next to a possibly asleep Jarlaxle (it was always a bit hard to tell) and wondered why his master didn't seem interested in 'playing' anymore.  Come to think of it, their last time was when he was trying to convince Jarlaxle to allow him onto this trip – was his leader angry about something he did then? Or was he just not interested at this point in time?

            The latter point seemed a bit questionable.  As far as he knew, for the past few years that they had officially been with each other Jarlaxle had never shown any actual disinterest in the act, and whoever initiated it was never much of an issue.  Right now whenever Kimmuriel tried to do anything, Jarlaxle would merely shoot him a bored look, as if he knew what the psionist wanted to do, but could not be bothered, and it always served to make Kimmuriel back off quickly, as if burned.

            Either that or Jarlaxle was truly tired, because he had not been moving around this much since he had returned from his first, long Surface hiatus… but that probably was not the reason either. 

            The last factor – and the most likely – was that Jarlaxle wanted to see how Kimmuriel would react.  That was a headache in itself – how as he supposed to react appropriately if he normally relied on his psionic ability to gauge the expectations on others, and Jarlaxle was immune to it? Jarlaxle had recently gotten into the habit of shielding his thoughts, and through the link all Kimmuriel could see were the most obvious things, like sleepiness, boredom, or thirst.  It was incredibly frustrating, especially when, in front of others, Jarlaxle ostensibly did one thing, and then in private he immediately went the opposite way.  Tonight had seemed so promising, too, despite the look of appreciation his master had favored that female human with…

            Kimmuriel was reminded of a time long past when he hadn't even thought that sex would be an integral and gratifying part of their relationship.  Now it seemed like one of the only ways he could get Jarlaxle to really look at him, really pay attention to his existence and value it – and his master was taking it away, probably for fun. 

            It was unfair.

            It was even more unfair since Jarlaxle had instructed him to keep an eye on Zaknafein and that human, and the feedback from that particular 'eye' made it extremely obvious what those two were doing right now, and it was making Kimmuriel vaguely envious, to the point that he was disobeying a direct order by shutting down the 'eye' for at least two hours.  

            Disobeying – was that the reason then? Kimmuriel was conscious of the fact that he had not been very compliant for a while… but Jarlaxle had always somewhat tolerated it before – the disapproving remarks, the criticisms, the accusing glances… the problem was that it was a bit hard to pinpoint what Jarlaxle felt at any one time.  

            Kimmuriel wondered if Jarlaxle knew how much his recent remarks hurt him, and whether his master was doing it on purpose – was he trying to break him, and then discard him? The anguish at…

            "I can hear your emotions, you know," Jarlaxle murmured. 

            Kimmuriel winced.  He'd forgotten to shield.  "I apologize."

            "Go to sleep."

            "If you wish." 

            "Do not just block me out then go on wading in self-pity."

            Kimmuriel grimaced.  Jarlaxle knew him far too well.  "As you command," he said, as meekly as possible.  Recently Jarlaxle tended to react badly to accusations, so Kimmuriel had to remind himself repeatedly not to make any.  Lying on his side, the buckle on his collar pressed against his flesh, and he pulled at it, arranging the accessory.

            "You can take that off if you do not feel comfortable," Jarlaxle said behind him.

            Kimmuriel turned sharply, a cold shiver going up his spine at those words.  His master's eyes were closed, facing him, fingers buried in the covers so as to pull them snugly up to his neck, to all appearances quite peacefully about to sleep.

            "My… the collar?" he whispered.

            "What did you think I was referring to?" 

            "I… why?" Kimmuriel blinked.  "Why ask me to remove it?"

            "I did not ask you to do that," Jarlaxle yawned.  "I merely said you could remove it if you wanted to."

            "But… you said I was to always wear this so as to remind myself – and other people – that I belong to you…"

            "It does not seem to work very well then, does it," Jarlaxle remarked blandly.

            Kimmuriel was speechless, not knowing how to react to _that_.  Did Jarlaxle mean that the psionist was acting as though… or did he mean other people were… what in the world? "What… what do you mean?"

            Jarlaxle stretched like a lazy cat.  "Sleep.  There is another long ride tomorrow."

            "Are you… angry with me about something?"

            "I think I am actually quite tired of that question."

            Kimmuriel opened his mouth to offer a generic apology, and then closed it quickly, knowing Jarlaxle would probably reject it, so he crept forward and pressed his lips against his master's instead, sighing mentally when Jarlaxle didn't respond, but insistently continuing anyway, planting nervous kisses and licks down Jarlaxle's neck and over his shoulders, murmuring heated pleadings against his master's skin.

            Jarlaxle growled, pushing Kimmuriel off him.  Just when the psionist thought that plans for the night had been changed, his master lay on top of him and murmured in his ear, "You are ruining my fun, Kimmuriel."

            "Why?"

            A smirk. "I actually wanted to leave off playing with you for a while just to see what you would do."  Did he mean that, or was he just saying something to make Kimmuriel think a certain way?

            Kimmuriel decided to take the words at face value, sliding his hands over Jarlaxle's shoulders and using his position to lick up his master's neck and whisper a hungry "Please…" in Jarlaxle's ear. 

            "Kimmuriel…" Jarlaxle growled, then sighed when Kimmuriel murmured something else in a slightly more urgent tone.  "Far too tempting."

**

            Needless to say, the ride across the rough but otherwise scenic route through the Cloud Peaks was fun for two of the party but somewhat uncomfortable for the other two.  

**

            Nashkel's 'travel inn', as did all 'travel inn's, gave Entreri a bad sense of déjà vu, and he was half-expecting the scary woman to show up in the bar room.  Thankfully, no scary oversexed woman, so dinner went without incident. 

            Nashkel had changed very much – now it looked like any trading village, with a lot of merchants, some farmers and a 'travel inn', since it lay just outside the most popular pass through the Cloud Peaks.  

            Entreri was only far too happy to be able to wash up and fall face down on the bed, muttering inaudibly about dark elves and their evil, pretending that he didn't just feel Zaknafein lazily trace his spine through his shirt.  He definitely had to say something when Zaknafein slid his hand into his pants, though… 

            "Stop that," he muttered, pulling out said hand.  "Because of you today's ride was damned painful, and I'd rather sleep it off."

            "I'd be gentle," Zaknafein said, somewhere above him.

            "It'd still hurt.  Take a bath in cold water."

            "If you do it with me."

            "No."

            Zaknafein sighed, then sat down next to him and began to massage tense shoulders and muscles.  Entreri froze for a moment, then relaxed slowly into it, vaguely wondering if this was Zaknafein's way of apologizing…  though probably not, because even in a gradually sleepy state he could _still_ feel it when someone was carefully taking off his pants, thank you… 

            "Zaknafein!"

            "What?" Zaknafein asked, innocently.

            Entreri swore quietly, trying to pull said piece of attire back on.  "Stop that.  And let go, damnit."

            Zaknafein pressed both his hands to his sides expertly, interlacing fingers gently, then chuckled.  "If you stop struggling I can make it a lot more comfortable."

            "Since when did you get your clothes off?" Entreri gritted his teeth, legs hampered by the pants, which had been pulled down to his knees.  "Bloody hell, Zaknafein…"

            "Agreed?"

            "What is 'agreed' is that once you let me go I'm going to find another room."

            "Humans do not know how to make buildings.  I will find you." Zaknafein draped himself on top of Entreri, and nipped the nape of his neck.  Entreri arched his back in reflex, and pressed into things he would rather not, at this point in time, feel.            
            "Get off!"

            "No.  And unless you _really_ want it to hurt, I suggest you lie still and let me prepare you."

            There wasn't that much he could say to that, really, other than try and appeal to common sense.  "Look, it's going to be a bandit-filled trip to Beregost, because they haven't gotten rid of the gnoll tribes yet, so I have to be in some recognizable shape tomorrow."

            "Mmm.  You can sit at back and practice on your archery skills.  I am quite sure Jarlaxle and I can handle half-dogs."

            "Yeah, and if I accidentally shoot you?"

            A laugh above his head.  "I will pay attention to any wayward ammunition."

            "In the middle of a fight?"

            "All the more why one should be paying attention to anything dangerous."

            "Well… you'd be the one tired tomorrow morning, as well."

            "Elves sleep four hours, not eight.  I will be fine."

            Swearing, Entreri twisted around such that he was on his back and facing Zaknafein.  "What's gotten into you, anyway? We can do a lot of this after Cloakwood!"

            Zaknafein frowned briefly, and there was fleeting, bitter smile.  "I am not so sure about that."

            "Oh come on, like I would lose interest if you can't turn into a little girl?"

            Zaknafein shrugged.  "It is not that."

            "Then what? You… don't think you'd survive it?" Entreri pointed at the gauntlet.  "A group of mages, no matter how large, cannot fight this thing."

            "It is not that either…" Zaknafein shook his head, and then climbed under the blankets.  "Fine, if you are so insistent about it… we will just sleep."

            "You're changing the subject."

            "You started it," Zaknafein said, closing his eyes.

            "Why don't you just tell me what the hell it is?"

            "Because I still do not understand why you continue to stand by me."

            "That… that's because…" Entreri bit his lip.  "Because…"

            There was a long, awkward pause, and then Zaknafein turned over.  "Just forget it."

            Gah.  Sometimes Entreri really hated himself.    

**

            Beregost had a children's toyshop.

            That was definitely the first thing Entreri noticed about it. Rather surreptitiously, to Jarlaxle's amusement, he dragged Zaknafein out of town and a little out of sight, and then came back with Sam.  If one of them was going to go mad inside the toyshop, he'd rather it was the little girl than the elegant 'sun elf', which would pose problems to any hope of keeping normalish outwards appearances. 

            "Why don't you two buy stuff for her, while I go and arrange some rooms at the Lion inn?" Entreri looked at Jarlaxle and Kimmuriel.  After all, what sort of mischief could they get into in a toyshop? 

            "But I want you to come with me," Sam said, tugging hopefully on Entreri's cloak.

            Jarlaxle laughed.  "Well then, you go with Sam to the toyshop, while Kimmuriel and I arrange the rooms."

            "The two of you attract far too much attention when not in either of our company," Entreri said mildly, patting Sam on the head.  "Unless you give your word not to engage in any public displays of affection or anything untoward."

            "Have you no faith?"

            "I do have a lot of faith – in your willingness and ability to cause diplomatic havoc."

            Jarlaxle grinned.  "I'd be nice."

            "That would be new," Entreri muttered, giving up and going with Sam to the shop, while the other two headed with the horses towards the inn.  

            The shop was small, but filled every corner and space on the wall with shelves and shelves of varnished, brightly colored wooden toys, well-made stuffed animals and dolls, little metal figurines of creatures and people engaged in everyday activity, and for some reason, a hell lot of fuzzy rocking horses.  Entreri rather liked rocking horses, and had bought one for Sam in Calimport which thankfully Zaknafein showed no interest in – he liked the way it stayed in one spot and yet managed to, for some reason, provide hours of non-violent entertainment unless one strayed too near to the wooden bars.

            The shopkeeper, a wizened-looking, old human male dressed in tattered brown overalls with pockets full of pens and scissors and various stationery, looked warily at Entreri, being able to sense the dispassionate danger that the assassin exuded, but seemed slightly more relieved when Sam ducked out from behind him and started running around the shop in delight, picking up things carefully, looking at them, then putting them back just as carefully.  "How many can I buy, brother?" she asked curiously, trying, and failing, to pick up a stuffed toy bear nearly as big as she was.

            "Hopefully not too many large, heavy and bulky ones," Entreri sighed.  "Which means that bear is out of the question."

            "Awww…"

            "Do you make these things yourself?" Entreri asked the shopkeeper curiously, picking up a fluff ball that on closer inspection appeared to be a rat.  Why would anyone want a toy _rat_, of all things… vermin tended not to be cute in reality… and toy horses never had that rather silly-looking smile, but would kick you if you could bend their legs in such a fashion…

            "Yes, my… my brother and I have been making toys for years," the shopkeeper said nervously.  "It's a family business."

            "They're very well made," Entreri said reassuringly, then looked sharply at the sound of Sam's "Oops." However, the girl had only dropped a stuffed toy, and hadn't broken anything. 

            "May I ask where you are traveling to?" the shopkeeper asked.

            "Why?" Entreri replied, making no effort to conceal his suspicion.

            "Well, if you are traveling to Baldur's Gate," the shopkeeper said hurriedly, "There's a toy fair there in a week – at the marketplace – which your, er, sister might like to look at."

            "Really? Can we?" Sam looked up from her close inspection of a brown hairy lump.  Entreri guessed it was probably a cat…

            "Thank you," Entreri said, nodding. 

            "You might want to avoid going into Cloakwood or stopping there for the night while traveling 'long the Coast Way, though," the shopkeeper continued.  "Lately it's got lots of weird sounds from it."

            "Weird sounds?"

            "Yeah… like there's a lot of people talking and walking, and all sorts of other things, but you see nothin'."

            "Thank you for your warning," Entreri said, frowning.  "We will be careful.  Are you done, Sam?"

            "Uh… is the fox cuter, or the rabbit?" Sam held up her findings.

            "Well… you can buy both," Entreri offered, hoping they weren't too overpriced.  "They're certainly small enough."

            "Uh… so, how many can I buy again?"

            "Just remember that unlike Kelend'ril I don't have pouches full of gold."

            "So 'one of each' is not a good option."

            "Yeah." 


	9. Subreality

Author's Note: I know that character insertion into an urban environment is annoying, but it's part of the plot.  Sorry.

Part 9

Subreality

            "Were there not supposed to be strange noises?" Jarlaxle looked at the dark, tangled trees of Cloakwood as if the place had personally betrayed him.

            "I am actually very relieved that it looks and sounds like a normal wood," Entreri informed him dryly, "Especially since it's just about nightfall." Besides, the fact that Zaknafein was looking increasingly confused was beginning to unnerve him.  The dark elf seemed to be darting suspicious glances into the depths of the bush as if expecting monsters to assault them at any moment – and seeming extremely puzzled when nothing happened. 

            "Do you want to take a look now, or wait till morning?" Jarlaxle asked curiously.

            "Now," Zaknafein said brusquely, at around the same time Entreri said "Morning."

            Entreri glared at his lover.  "All three of you might be able to see perfectly well in the darkness, but I can't."

            "Oh? But you are an assassin," Jarlaxle grinned mischievously.  "One would have thought the night would be your element, and all that."

            "Calimport happens to have lanterns and torches hung intermittently around at night," Entreri said as coldly as he could.  "And I feel a lot less wary in a city, no matter what time of day it is, than in some potentially dangerous wood in the middle of the wilderness.  You know that, Jarlaxle." Although this darkness was fine compared to the Underdark, he would much rather go about searching for the wizards in the daytime.  It was far too easy to overlook things at night. 

            "What do you think, Kimmuriel?" Jarlaxle asked his 'pet mage'.

            Kimmuriel shrugged.  "I feel no sentient presences close by.  If you wish to enter this forest, then I will go with you – if you stay, I will stay."

            "I knew he would say that," Entreri muttered.  "Are none of you tired?"

            "Are you?"

            "Yes," Entreri said dryly.  Actually he wasn't, because it had been a fairly sedate ride from Beregost, with Zaknafein being relatively benign and affectionate instead of wickedly playful. 

            "The morning, then," Jarlaxle shrugged, getting off his horse then helping Kimmuriel dismount.  "We had better set up camp."

            "You cook," Zaknafein told Jarlaxle dryly, dismounting and proceeding to string his longbow.  "I am going to look for game.  I refuse to eat human travel rations more than once a day." 

            "I'll go with you," Entreri said quickly, tethering his horse with the rest and helping Kimmuriel with his mount.  

            "You cannot see in the dark," Zaknafein reminded him with a grin, though he seemed relatively pleased that Entreri wished to go along.

            "I can see in the dark," Entreri corrected stubbornly, "Just not perfectly."  
            "Take Kimmuriel with you and leave Entreri here," Jarlaxle suggested, "Kimmuriel can kill much more cleanly, and Entreri can help me with the camp.  After all… we've had a lot of experience."

            "Don't remind me of those ten years," Entreri groaned.

            Zaknafein's mouth twitched a little – obviously not as happy with this arrangement, or with the comment regarding 'a lot of experience', but shrugged.  "Fine." 

            Kimmuriel looked as though he was going to protest, but apparently thought better of it when Jarlaxle raised an eyebrow at him, and moved quietly to follow Zaknafein as the warrior wandered off into the forest.  Entreri watched them go, then efficiently began setting up the tents, wishing it didn't remind him so much of ten years spent in the mercenary leader's company.  Some of the trouble they got into still gave him mild nightmares… especially after a heavy dinner of some sort.  

            "Can you still remember how to cook?" he asked Jarlaxle as he finished one tent and started on the other.

            "That is actually insulting," Jarlaxle said, professing an injured pride.  "You did not die from it before."

            "No, but I've always thought it looked rather suspicious," Entreri said dryly.  "Especially the amount of mushrooms always inside it.  And why did you get Kimmuriel to go with Zaknafein? I would have thought you'd welcome the opportunity of privacy."

            "Well… Kimmuriel does not know how to set up camp, and has a tendency to get into my way when he tries to be helpful," Jarlaxle replied, piling some dry sticks onto the firestarter.  "Not to mention we might get distracted, the same way you and Zaknafein might."

            "At least we don't do it in public," Entreri muttered, planting a pole into the ground.  "Want to take turns looking out?"

            "Well, elves sleep for four hours instead of you humans… so actually just Zaknafein and myself could take turns," Jarlaxle said, managing to locate pot and materials in a saddlebag, then frowned as he looked inside the pot.  "Hmm.  When was the last time we washed this?"

            Entreri shot him a disbelieving look.

            Jarlaxle laughed.  "Only joking."

            "Someday you'd be the death of me," Entreri shook his head, righting another pole.  

            "Oh, I hope not," Jarlaxle grinned, "How am I to explain it to Zaknafein?"

            "He has been behaving so oddly lately that you might not have many problems at all," Entreri replied, pushing an iron peg into the ground and knotting twine around it.  

            "Oddly? Well… he _is_ still a little unbalanced."

            "I don't remember him being paranoid."

            "In what sense?"

            "He's been acting as though he wouldn't survive this," Entreri gestured at the dark forest.

            "We _are_ going into unknown territory," Jarlaxle conceded, "But I would agree that it is unlike Zaknafein to fear… that.  Or most things." He looked up sharply. 

            "What? What?" Entreri's hand went to his sword as he shot glances around quickly.  Ten years had also conditioned him to react in panicky ways whenever Jarlaxle turned serious.  

            "Kimmuriel's in trouble," Jarlaxle replied tersely, dropping pot and miscellaneous equipment, and then taking off into the woods.  Entreri cursed elvish impatience, and ran after him, nearly tripping over the twine.  What could have hurt Kimmuriel? Whatever it was… then… Zaknafein… 

            He rather wished Jarlaxle wasn't running so quickly.  What with the darkness, and his growing anxiety, he couldn't follow even the brightly colored cloak very well… and how did the mercenary leader manage to thread his way past tangling bushes, snaking roots and low-hanging branches without getting caught… 

            Damn! Entreri yanked irritably at his cloak, winced as it ripped, looked back forward, and realized that he'd lost Jarlaxle.  Looking backwards, he couldn't tell very well where he had come from, so he couldn't retrace his steps… and was it his imagination, or was the darkness becoming deeper…?

**

            Jarlaxle slowed his steps when he 'felt' Kimmuriel's presence close by, and, instead of making a bee-line for it, circled instead, his jewelry and cloak abruptly turning into shades of dull green and gray, preventing him from being betrayed by their gleam.  Infrared showed a patch on the tree a few yards away from him, and then the patch disappeared, as if a cloak had been hurriedly pulled over a body.  The mercenary leader threw a dagger, and smiled when he heard a curse and a crash as someone fell heavily onto the ground.  Moving quickly behind a tree, he nodded absently as dweomered arrows stitched into trees and foliage behind him.  

            Where was Entreri? No doubt the assassin had gotten lost somewhere behind him if he hadn't shown up by now – the man wasn't used to the forest, and had never failed to get lost in one if he was left to his own devices, especially at night.  Jarlaxle hadn't expected himself to move so quickly… but Kimmuriel's safety seemed so much more important than worrying about Entreri's navigational ability at that moment, when the panicked feedback had washed in through their shared mental connection.  

            "Come out, Jarlaxle," a deep male voice said somewhere far behind him.  "Or I'd have to break your little toy."

            At least their complex and carefully constructed 'mental' connection had not been affected by whatever had been done to Kimmuriel to prevent him from being able to use his magic.  _Are you conscious?_ He 'asked'.

            _Yes… leave this place… _Kimmuriel seemed to be in great pain, and even his projections were erratic.  _Humans… archers… on trees… a trap…_

            _Where is Zaknafein?_ Jarlaxle moved back carefully, trying not to step on any twigs, and crept to the next tree.  Judging from the angle of the shots, he was quite sure he could tell, relatively, which trees the archers were on.  That their enemy had come prepared for them was not really surprising – Jarlaxle had been quite suspicious at the beginning regarding the 'messenger' that Entreri had sent.  No one so obviously a carrier of information should have been able to come so close to a city with a branch of Bregan D'aerthe without Jarlaxle knowing. 

            _Went off… earlier… heard voices… I was going back… to camp…_ A cry of pain, badly stifled.  _Hurry! Leave this place… _

_            What, and leave you here?_ Jarlaxle 'commented', amused.  He squinted, and made careful aim – and the dagger hit the throat of the 'archer', making the person let out a soft gurgle and slump against the trunk of the tree.  The cloak only shielded the wearer, on closer inspection – so one only needed to look carefully at the spot without veins of infrared through the leaves of the trees and other little animals.  

            _I am… of no use… like this…_

            "Jarlaxle? You have ten seconds." Another cry of pain, this time mostly muffled, as if the victim had bitten himself to try and stop the sounds.  Jarlaxle frowned, and removed a necklace, crushing the crystal pendant in his gloves.

            _How many archers?_

            _I do not… know… leave me… _

Jarlaxle wiped the powder off his hands onto the grass, and then said clearly, "All right, I'm coming out."

            _No! Master… leave me!_

            "And none too soon, either." 

            Jarlaxle walked slowly out, hands in the air.  Kimmuriel was on the ground twenty metres or so away, while a brown-robed man held a longsword to his throat.  Two arrows stuck out of his legs, at the joints, and blood stained other parts of his off-white robes.  

            "Disarm yourself." The brown-robed man ordered, "Or I believe I do not need to waste breath telling you what I'd do to your mage."

            Jarlaxle shrugged, removing his gloves and dumping them on the ground.  "Do you want me to remove all my weapons?"

            "That's what I said," the man snapped.

            Jarlaxle raised an eyebrow.  "All right." He unclasped one of his necklaces and dropped it, then unclasped another… and another…

            "Not the jewelry!" the man frowned.  "Oh, right.  I was told about those.  Apparently they're even more dangerous than your returning daggers."

            "Make up your mind, then," Jarlaxle said pleasantly.  

            "Fine, fine," Kimmuriel's captor muttered.  "Hurry up."

            Jarlaxle nodded, ignoring the telepathic pleas from Kimmuriel to stop.  Removing all the necklaces and assorted torques took fifteen minutes, before he could start on his bracelets… 

            And on cue – shouts and yells from the trees, and even the brown-robed man stepped back, dropping his sword and waving wildly in front of his eyes, cursing, then choking and falling to his knees, clawing at his face… and Jarlaxle calmly picked up a necklace, clicked a switch on his clasp, and abruptly all his equipment, gloves included, were neatly back in place.  A dagger took the brown-robed man out of his misery, and he was crouching next to Kimmuriel, checking his wounds.  The mage couldn't walk, unfortunately, so Jarlaxle made him put one arm over his shoulder, and slowly supported him to his feet, then back towards the direction of camp, smirking at the screaming behind them.

            "What did you do?" Kimmuriel asked, surprised, gritting his teeth at the pain.

            "That necklace I got from Ched Nasad a hundred or so years ago," Jarlaxle explained dryly, "The single-use, race-specific insect plague that takes fifteen minutes to start up.  Never used it before because I normally need immediacy, but I could stall in this case.  It will keep them – and any human in half a mile's radius – entertained for an hour or so."

            "Oh," Kimmuriel paused, biting his lip.  "I apologize for…"

            "You are worth far more to me than a necklace," Jarlaxle cut in curtly, and then changed the subject.  "I hope Entreri's immunity to magic excludes him from the plague."

**

            Actually, an insect plague was currently the least problem on Entreri's mind, because he didn't seem to be in Faerun any longer, and being immune to magic made him relatively sure that it was no illusion. He seemed to be in a narrow alleyway, the walls of the buildings strangely even, and an odd metal container behind him that was obviously a garbage receptacle.  Adding to his annoyance at being transported elsewhere, it was raining, a steady gray drizzle that quickly drenched him, making him run quickly in search for shelter.

            Out of the alley and under the overhang of a building, he noticed many other bewildering things.  Firstly… the roads were a deep, coarse gray, with even stripes down the center… and on the whole, far too even to make much sense as to how they were made.  The people who passed him stared, but walked quickly by – they wore outlandishly cut clothes of many colors.  As he watched in disbelief, a growling metal vehicle moved at an unnatural speed past him on the road.  Come to think of it… all the buildings seemed uniformly tall, and behind glass displays were odd accessories and clothes…  

            "Hey man, nice costume," Entreri realized someone was talking to him.  A youth, his friends also looking curiously over his shoulder, an ingratiating grin on his face, a strange burr in his voice, but still speaking understandable Common.  "You going to the con or what?"

            "A con?" Entreri frowned.

            "Yeah, a gaming convention.  I'd bet you're going as Ian Nottingham of the Witchblade, eh?" the boy pointed at the gauntlet on Entreri's arm. 

            "Nope, no katana, dumb-ass," one of the youth's friends smacked him on the back.  "See that? See that?" Entreri glanced at where the youth was pointing – his jeweled dagger?

            "Ohhhhh.  An Artemis Entreri fan!" yet another of the interchangeable boys grinned.  "Hey cool!" 

            "Well, I'm _sorry_ about the mix-up," the other youth muttered.  "I've always thought Salvatore borrowed heavily from other fantasy sources anyway."

            Now admittedly more than extremely confused, Entreri could only stare at the group of boys.  Thankfully, before he said something extremely odd, one of them spoke up.  "So… are you people going as a gang or something? We saw another guy in costume just now, as a dark elf.  Damn cool."

            "Er… yes.  We got separated… did you see where he went?"

            "Probably the con," one of the boys nodded.  "We're all going.  So we might as well go in a group, yeah? We were going to talk to your friend, but he seemed to be in a hurry so we didn't go catch up with him."

            Which was probably why they were still alive.  Entreri knew that Zaknafein's instinctive reaction at the moment to a confusing situation was one of violence.  Though he was not sure how he had come to this place, or whether it was just some elaborate, powerful illusion of a sort that could slip past his weapon… he knew he had to find the dark elf.

            Did Zaknafein think this would happen? Was that why he acted as though Cloakwood would be the end? But nothing here seemed that dangerous as yet… all the people were unarmed, and the clear paths for pedestrians meant that one wouldn't be menaced by the occasional growling metal chariot… 

            The sheer bulk of colors and the seemingly hasted speed of life was beginning to make Entreri feel slightly dizzy, and extremely disoriented.  The youths seemed to sense this, and one said sympathetically, "You're not from around here, are you?"

            "No… I am afraid I was a little lost there," Entreri said, with a weak grin.  

            "Lucky you found us, then."

            "Is the con far away?" Entreri asked politely.

            "Why… you worried about your friend?"

            "Yes… He also gets lost a little easily."

            "Oh well – hopefully we'd find him on the way then," the boy nodded, "Or you could just look 'round the con.  Bet'ya few people will be in such elaborate costumes.  My name's Shawn, by the way."  The other boys introduced themselves, and Entreri, worried about Zaknafein, absently introduced himself with his real name.

            "Yeah, sure thing, 'Entreri'," Josh said with a grin.  "So, who's your friend?"

            "Him? Oh he's…" Entreri paused, unsure as to whether or not to tell them… but guessed he might as well.

            "He's not Drizzt, because Drizzt has two scimitars… right?"

            "No, not Drizzt," Entreri was rather surprised that they knew about his nemesis.

            "I know! Drizzt's dad… what's his name… Zaknafein, yeah," Max said, snapping his fingers.  "Two longswords, no stupid sparkly blue shit… yeah, Zaknafein.  That's cool."

            "It's not sparkly blue shit, you ass," Josh snorted.  "Drizzt is the coolest.  And he beat Zaknafein before.  More than once."

            "Yeah? I thought Salvatore must'a been on crack when he wrote that.  One has four hundred years of experience, one has about sixteen? Less than sixteen? Then later… twenty plus? And he can beat the four hundred years? Yeah, right."

            Actually, Entreri had always wondered about Drizzt's account of that incident, but after his own training sessions with Zaknafein, at least he had an answer.  "Perhaps Zaknafein was holding back while training a younger dark elf," he suggested.

            "I think that's it, yeah," Shawn said, sounding amused.  "Hold it up, you guys.  The two of you whine and bitch so much about the issue that for all I know you're the guys on crack.  Fans of any sort give me the creeps."

            "Yeah, yeah, then how do you explain your own obsessiveness with Elminster?"

            "Hey, a kick-ass mage like that? No explanation needed."

            And a lot more dialogue… and what was that? Entreri turned his head, in time to see a cloak before it disappeared down yet another of the uniform alleyways.  "Nice to meet you people," Entreri told the boys quickly, then ran off after it, leaving the shouts of 'Hey, the con is that way!' behind him. 

            A few more twists and turns – into a road, a large park in front of him.  Nearly getting knocked down by a speeding chariot, the human inside furiously yelling at him, Entreri ran into the park, looking around wildly… and blocked a slice to his side.

            Backing off quickly, weapons drawn, Entreri got a sinking feeling when he saw Zaknafein's snarling features – like a maddened beast…

**

            Back at the camp, rudimentary first-aid applied by a seriously annoyed Jarlaxle got the arrows safely removed, and some judicious application of healing potions managed to get Kimmuriel more or less healed, though the wounds still hurt – the problem with potions was that they seemed to make the body disbelieve that you had just been abruptly healed, such that you tended to feel the pain intermittently for a longer time.  Kimmuriel lay on his chest under a travel blanket, head turned, breathing painfully, watching his master with tired eyes as Jarlaxle put away the medical equipment, wiped his hands of blood, then sat down next to the mage.

            "Are the sentry wards still around the camp?" he asked mildly.

            "Yes," Kimmuriel replied, after a pause, then slowly moved his hand to lightly touch Jarlaxle's ungloved one.  "Thank you."

            Jarlaxle did not reply, though he sat closer to stroke Kimmuriel's hair gently.  "I wonder how those two are doing."

            Kimmuriel closed his eyes, as if savoring his master's touch.  "I cannot… feel them anywhere close by."

            "Well… we will just have to go look for some answers after you get some rest." Jarlaxle said thoughtfully, patting Kimmuriel's shoulder.  "I might as well keep watch until then."

            "But you need to rest as well," Kimmuriel grabbed Jarlaxle's wrist.  "The sentry wards…"

            "Since our enemy were so prepared for us… I think the wards might not hold a concentrated attack," Jarlaxle replied, gently but firmly prying Kimmuriel's fingers off his wrist.  "I will be fine."

            "But…" Kimmuriel protested anxiously.  Jarlaxle ignored him, putting on his boots, then made a sound born of pure exasperation when he felt Kimmuriel embrace him from behind, muffling sounds of pain from the forced movement against his back.  

            "Did you not try this the last time?" Jarlaxle muttered, keeping still, in case he brushed against the barely healed wounds.

            "Keep watch from here?" Kimmuriel murmured drowsily, the sleeping pills Jarlaxle had laced the healing potions with finally beginning to take effect.  "Please."

            Jarlaxle sighed, carefully pulling Kimmuriel into his lap, blankets and all, arranging the mage such that he could sleep cradled against Jarlaxle's arm, head against his master's shoulder.  "Better?"

            Kimmuriel yawned, obviously dropping off, "… love you…"

            Jarlaxle watched as the mage fell asleep, then looked out into the forest, his expression enigmatic.

**

            "Well," Entreri said, gasping, "This isn't surprising." Disarmed except for the irremovable short sword, on his back, arms numbed from nasty stabs at his arms, a furious Zaknafein about to kill him…  "But why don't you say… something?"

            One difference though – Zaknafein never continued trying to fight him past a certain point (normally once he was well and certain Entreri had given up).  It looked as though Zaknafein was serious this time, and Entreri wondered what was wrong – sure, they were in a weird new world with no apparent exit, but Zaknafein should know he was not a threat… right?

            Entreri somehow found the effort to roll away from a stab, and shakily to his feet, and barely block a blow with his raised gauntlet.  "Zaknafein… what the hell… is wrong with you? Don't tell me you don't recognize me…"

            "All illusions," Zaknafein snarled, his first words since the fight.  "You are all illusions!"

            "I am _not_ a bloody illusion!" Entreri snapped, weariness and frustration boiling into a nice temper, blocking another slice.  "Do I _feel _like a damn illusion?"

            "All… the world… is a lie," Zaknafein replied, punctuating his words with a vicious flurry of slashes, some of which managed to connect.  Entreri winced, deciding this was a pretty good moment to run away, and used the gauntlet to come out with the black ash curtain.  Hurriedly, he ran to his side, stooping to pick up the jeweled dagger, and then fled the area.  The curses behind him seemed to lurch to the side, then were silent. 

            Thank the Gods for the gauntlet.  Entreri decided to try and find a nice, quiet area to stop, them some beggars to… and the padding sounds to his right were a definite warning that someone was running with him, like a wolf, circling its prey.  Since there were precious few people Entreri knew who could detect him when he was moving as silently as he could… 

            Entreri stopped, and had to dodge a slice at his neck.  "Zaknafein… bloody hell, if you think I'm an illusion, why don't you go kill another one?"

            "You dare… wear _his_ guise," Zaknafein growled, a kick connecting, knocking the breath out of Entreri and making him stagger back, gasping.  "You dare…"

            "Sam?" Entreri tried another appeal.  The ash was dissipating quickly.  

            Zaknafein shook his head, frowning.  "Sam? She's…" He hissed suddenly in pain, and dropped his weapons, clutching at his head.  "Stop it! Stop trying to come out! I… must kill him… no, he is not the real one!"

            Well, that wasn't very encouraging, but Entreri found himself moving quickly forward anyway, sheathing his weapons, and holding Zaknafein's arms.  "Are you all right? What's happening?"

            "Don't… touch me," Zaknafein snarled, between heavy, pain-filled breathing, twisting away.  "You… are not Entreri…"

            "Of course I am," Entreri said, quickly becoming very annoyed.  How did one deal with this kind of situation? "Ask me a question then."

            Zaknafein stared at him with wild eyes, and then began to laugh, a low, choking, disturbing sound.  "Fine.  Do you… love me?"

            Entreri blinked, having expected questions about personal details regarding their life together to date.  "I…" 

            "Well? Can you answer that, illusion?" Zaknafein asked, taunting, whatever pain that had struck him apparently dying away.  

            "How is this supposed to prove to you that I'm not an illusion?" Entreri asked irritably.

            "Because I know the answer," Zaknafein said simply.  "And if you do not… then you are an illusion, and I will kill you."

            Entreri could only gape at Zaknafein in surprise for several moments, and then sighed, trying to restrain his anger.  "How do you know what I feel? How can you just assume something… how can you just ask me this, in such a situation?"

            "Are you going to answer me?"

            "I refuse to answer you like this," Entreri snapped, now absolutely furious, despite being tired, wounded and… probably because of those conditions.  "Instead of trying to kill each other we should be trying to find a way out of this place."

            "You cannot get out," Zaknafein replied, and there was a deep despair in his voice.  "Because this world is the real one, and all of the other is a lie." 

            "Look, I knew you were a little unbalanced, but that is downright insane," Entreri said, attempting to be reasonable.  "How can this world be real? Does it look real to you? How can roads be that flat, and buildings that evenly built? How can things move that quickly? How can the grass in this park be cut at a uniform height?"

            "It is," Zaknafein muttered.  "It was shown to me.  The other world – and all the other worlds – only exist through the imagination of those in this world, not by themselves.  Not… real." 

            "Did the demons tell this to you?" Entreri asked suspiciously, getting a glimmer of why Zaknafein had behaved as he had.  If he truly believed in this – it was no wonder that his mind seemed to have broken.

            "That and much more," Zaknafein said painfully, as if remembering something he did not want to.  "All… illusion…"

            "Right," Entreri sighed.  "What do you think is an illusion, Zaknafein?"

            Zaknafein frowned at him.  "Anything that is not real."

            "So what is 'real' then? Can an illusion do this?" Entreri stepped forward and put a hand against Zaknafein's cheek, then leaned forward and kissed him, a little awkwardly, growing in confidence when Zaknafein opened his mouth and took over.  "Well?" he asked, when they disengaged.

            Zaknafein blinked, stared at him briefly, then pulled him down into another kiss, which moved to Entreri's ear, the assassin moaning softly when he slowly licked the exposed neck… "You still have not answered my question," he murmured, lightly caressing Entreri's arm, conscientiously avoiding the cuts.

            Entreri felt his ire draining away, and he thought – did he love Zaknafein? He certainly cared for him… if not saying this would not be so hard… but love? To want to be with someone else forever… to be able to give yourself entirely to another… for your entire existence to hang on that of another, was that what it was to love? Was he able to love? Not the way Kimmuriel loved Jarlaxle… but in his own way, did he love Zaknafein? And the answer was right there… deep down within him. 

            "I…" Entreri sighed.  "I think I should have told you this before.  Yes, I… love you." He hissed when Zaknafein roughly pushed him away, losing his balance and falling onto his rump on the soft grass. "What?"

            "Wrong answer," Zaknafein said coldly.  Were those tears in his eyes…? "_He _does _not_ love me."

            "How would _you_ know that?" Entreri snapped, his anger returning.  He had to spend this much effort saying that… and he was not believed? "Damn it, Zaknafein… then how would you come up with a reason why I…"

            "Because he can never tell me why," Zaknafein reasoned, holding his boot knife now.  "That means he must have been hiding a reason that he did not want to 'hurt' me with… and the reason must have been that he never felt love for me, even if he cared a little – or cared enough such that he did not wish me to be 'hurt'."

            "How about 'I couldn't tell you because I was scared of getting so attached? Because I didn't want to ruin what we had?' Since your last experience with love… I did not know how you would react to an admission…" Entreri breathed a shuddering sigh.  "I will never hurt you.  So there isn't any way I can get out of this, can I? There's no way I can fight you and win if I don't hurt you… so all I can do is defend myself, and that isn't a way of winning…"

            Zaknafein paused, shaking his head.  "You are an illusion.  You are not… Entreri…"

            "I'm getting damned tired of hearing you say that," Entreri replied angrily.  "How am I supposed to know whether _you're_ the illusion, then?"

            "And how would you know that?" Zaknafein asked curiously.

            "Because I can touch you… and because I don't know anyone else so bloody stubborn!"

            Zaknafein stared at him, then chuckled somewhat hollowly.  "I must admit you are a very good copy."

            "That's because I'm the real one!"

            "The last time they put in a Jarlaxle… a Malice… a Drizzt… my daughter… many others… all of them went out of character near the end."

            "Are you even listening to me?"

            "I killed all of those.  All the fakes.  Killing fakes in the 'real' world… is that not fitting? I think I killed them all in this park, too.  I tried to bury them, but the bodies faded away." Zaknafein glanced at the oaks, as if remembering something.  

            "What if you killed me, and my body did not fade?" Entreri challenged.  "What if what I said is true?"

            "Then I guess I would not want to continue living," Zaknafein smiled rather sinisterly, with a rather manic, psychotic purpose.  "But that is not much of a problem is it, since you are an illusion."

            "So… how do you normally get out of the 'real world'?"

            "Whenever the demons have had their fun." Zaknafein shrugged.  "I've had a long, good dream in the Material Plane this time.  Perhaps it is time… that the demons took me back to hell."

            "Someone like you doesn't belong in hell," Entreri said quietly.

            "Someone like me?"

            "Yeah," Entreri rested his head against his hand, elbow on his knee.  "Is that what it is to love? To think, despite all evidence, that the other is an angel?"

            "That is part of it," Zaknafein agreed, and moved to him, pushing him down and placing the knife at his throat.  Entreri, now far too tired of the entire affair to resist – and besides, the numbness in his arms just set in with a vengeance.

            "See… you are illusion," Zaknafein muttered, eyes focused on a point behind Entreri, avoiding the assassin's eyes.  "He would not give in this easily."

            "Zaknafein… I haven't slept for the past day, and you've just wounded my arms and my legs," Entreri said dryly.  "I'm hard pressed even to run away."

            Zaknafein wasn't listening – Entreri managed to catch the boot knife as it fell, then found himself looking into the worried eyes of Sam.  Much less weight on his stomach, which was good…

            "Finally!" Sam grinned sheepishly.  "Sorry about that.  Can you run? I'd hold him back until you're gone."

            Entreri lay down onto the grass, turning his eyes up towards the blue sky and intermittent clouds.  "Sorry, I'm staying."

            "But why? He'd just kill you.  He still doesn't think you're real."

            "And how are you to know whether I'm real?" Entreri asked wearily.

            "Because I think you really do love him," Sam grinned.  "And we all have to have a bit of faith."

            "Well… isn't it ironic that the first thing he does when I tell him that is to say he doesn't believe me?" Entreri pointed out bitterly. 

            "I think it's because he wants to believe you so badly that he's afraid that he'd get hurt," Sam shrugged little shoulders.  "And he doesn't want to get bitten twice."

            "I don't even want to be bitten at all," Entreri muttered, deciding to be pragmatic.  Emotional angsting could wait – what was more important was getting back to the real world. "But I think it's a bit late.  Do you know how to get out of here?"

            "Nope," Sam said, getting off and sitting on the grass.  "Never been here before.  I think he might, but he's gone all quiet."

            "That's good," Entreri said, not wanting to deal with a recalcitrant Zaknafein at the moment, even if it meant they'd be stuck here for a while.  "Stay here.  I'm going to get healed, then I'd come back."

            "Do you think all this is real?" Sam asked curiously, patting the grass.

            "I think it may be," Entreri replied, "But there are a lot of worlds, and we might just have been dropped onto this one.  For all we know – our world, and this world, are just two separate ones."

            "I hope that might be it," Sam agreed slowly.  "But what if this is the real one? What if Zaknafein and his demons were right?"

            "Does it matter?" Entreri asked, standing up slowly.  "To me, the other world has been real, and is real, and will continue to be real.  As much as I like it or not – it is my reality.  Whether this one is real as well, or the root of my world, makes no difference to me."

**

            What is love…

            If not a fragile fantasy?


	10. A few tricks

Part 10

A few tricks

            "So," Entreri said, when he came back healed – thank the Gods that this city also had people recognizable as beggars, "Where were we?" 

            Sam stood up and looked around.  "Trying to find a way out."

            "You really have no idea at all?"

            "Yeah, and he's been quiet," Sam said sheepishly.  "Sorry."

            "No, being quiet is a good thing," Entreri replied, keeping a tight hold on his temper.  Exhausted by the fight, the outburst and the argument afterwards, he was really in no mood to be reassuring to a little girl, but making her upset would not help matters very much, and Entreri prided himself on being practical, despite past endeavors involving his 'arch-nemesis'.  This showed that even immortal assassins have their blind spots.  "Are you hungry?"

            "A little," Sam admitted.  "But do you have the… money from here? I think all places would have different currency, especially different worlds."

            "If I did not look this different from the normal people I could steal some," Entreri said dryly, "I grew up as a thief, and I think I can still remember a few tricks."

            "I could try something," Sam offered, brightening at the prospect of showing off some of her 'newfound skills'.

            "No, it's too dangerous." Entreri sat on the ground next to Sam and sighed, thinking, regretting having brought up the subject of food, because now he was hungry too.  He could go to the 'convention', because the youths had implied that people who were dressed like him went there… except that he was quite sure that he would get lost looking for it.  The sense of disorientation brought on by being in extremely unfamiliar and peculiar territory was serving to mess up his navigational ability, even in a city-like atmosphere. 

            "Maybe Jarlaxle and Kimmuriel will think of something," Sam suggested hopefully, with a child's trust in adults.  "They seem really smart!"

            "I certainly hope so," Entreri replied mildly, not stating that the last he'd remembered, Jarlaxle had been looking so deadly serious about Kimmuriel's mental call for aid that it was quite likely something rather bad had happened to the psionist, and help might not be forthcoming from that quarter.  "Did you see what happened when Zaknafein came here? Like where he might have appeared from?"

            "No… one moment he was following noises – like people talking, though you can't hear what about – then one moment he was here." Sam sighed.  "What are we going to do now?"

            "Let's walk around for a while.  Maybe we'd find something," Entreri said, getting up and putting on an optimistic expression.  Frankly, he did not feel nearly as optimistic, and was actually betting on Jarlaxle for help… but again, he did not want to deal with a hysterical child at this moment.  Especially – since Entreri was still somewhat prone to a male view of the world despite long years of association with strong female figures in his life, human or otherwise – a female hysterical child.  Like most men, he had a feeling that he would know absolutely nothing about how to comfort a crying girl, and did not really want to get into such a situation.

            "All right," Sam grinned, nearly bouncing to her feet.  "Where first?"

            "Well… back to the alley I turned up in.  Maybe there's something different there," Entreri walked with Sam to the road, looked around carefully, saw no fast-moving chariot things, and got quickly across, then began slowly retracing his steps.  That rickety-looking metal stairway looked familiar, as did that set of vandalized wall – slowly, they got back to the main street that he had followed the youths down.  No luck there – everything looked decidedly normal – as much as 'normal' was in this place, anyway.

            Overhead, something made a distant roar, and Entreri ducked on reflex before looking.  Large metal bird-like thing in the air.  Probably some sort of magecraft… it was rather reassuring somehow to know, despite his hatred of mages, that at least this world had the common factor of magic between it and Toril.

            Entreri didn't want to face the most probable conclusion – but they were well and truly stuck – so he began to look closely at the walls and the structures as if searching for clues, gingerly running his fingers over the even stone-like material, ignoring the smell which seemed more or less common to alleys all over the universe.  There was probably some rule of metaphysics out there about it. 

            "Maybe that person knows where to go," Sam suggested, pointing out of the alley, where a motley group of people were passing by – dressed in very strange, patchy armor and wearing extremely odd-looking flimsy copies of swords and other strange implements.  Shrugging, Entreri walked out of the alley and approached the group. 

            "Greetings," he started off a little awkwardly.  "But are you and your party headed to the 'con'?"

            A girl with very obviously fake elvish ears nodded excitedly.  "Oh yes.  Are you going too?"

            "I am afraid that my sister and I are a little lost," Entreri put on his best smile, which still looked somewhat sinister.  "Could we accompany you to the 'con'?"

            "Oh, sure!" another girl grinned.  Entreri realized that this group was not only just about all females, though he wasn't sure about the one behind the helmet made of some strange papery material, but also all more or less wearing fake elvish ears that would make any true elf laugh himself sick. Why were they doing that anyway? The main difference that Entreri really could think about between an elf and a human was not really the ears, but the inhuman beauty, the unconscious grace and the slenderness of the body… and in general, the absolutely annoying haughtiness. 

            "So, where'd you get all that armor from?" another girl asked curiously.  "And um… are you going as Aragorn?"

**

            "Is it all settled then?"

            The mages looked uneasily at themselves, and then at the dark human-shaped figure leaning out of the dim light at the wall, arms crossed, fingers idly tapping, as if in impatience. 

            "Well… our research…"

            "Has to be curtailed," the figure said curtly.

            "But you do not see!" one of the mages almost wailed.  "Do you not see how important this is? To know what is true reality? The answer could strike at the core of society, of magic, of life itself!"

            "Perhaps that is why it should not be known," the figure suggested dryly, "Imagine what it would cause if it were found to be true.  Nothing would function – all structure and order as we know it, whether for human, elf, dwarf… any living thing – may fade into chaos.  And… though chaos is admittedly quite entertaining, in excess it simply becomes wearisome."

            "But it may only be for a while… and who best to search the new realm than this continent's greatest assassin, accompanied by one of the best warriors this world has known?"

            "That 'best warrior' you speak of is currently fairly out of his mind and extremely confused," the figure replied, "Though I believe that may have been your intention.  I do not know precisely when you freed him from Hell, but I believe you kept him in an impression of Hell and kept placing him inside the Other, did you not?"

            "Yes… we hoped that in the havoc he would invariably cause would bring about some sort of reaction in the Other, such that we could gain greater understanding from it – but mainly what happened was that the killed were ignored or explained away.  It was as if the Other was just a mirror of this world."

            "Humans are humans no matter where they are, eh? Perhaps you did learn something after all.  How all of you – and your human Gods – like to make others in your image." The figure yawned.  "Though I believe I should thank you for making the past few weeks highly interesting."

            "We would like to know however… how did you find out about all this?" another mage asked, almost fearfully. 

            "A bit of old-fashioned deduction and looking for clues.  I got some people to ask around in Hell, and they had never heard of this kind of 'torture', and besides, apparently Zaknafein had dropped out of the picture a while ago due to some sort of deal.  The little girl – some sort of magical construct – was to restrain him, wasn't she, because you could not place him in the Other all the time, or cause too much havoc and get him killed there. I believe you people thought that you had some sort of ritual that could control the change from the girl to Zaknafein, as a little girl, no matter how intelligent, is a lot easier to manage than an insane warrior." 

            "However, you probably did not expect that their combined will was strangely stronger than whatever bonds the ritual used to tie them to this place," the figure continued idly, as if just remarking on the weather, "So they escaped, and since you lot are mages as well as humans you had to come up with a really complicated and odd plan to get them willingly back here, but you did not count on much interference, nor that the girl's will – or Zaknafein's own hesitation –would be so strong as to prevent Zaknafein from killing Entreri and hence driving him absolutely insane." 

            "Well… you seem to know the bones of it," one of the mages admitted.  "Quite a bit of it was made up on the way, so I guess this failure was not too unexpected.  We never expected Zaknafein to develop feelings for Entreri… or vice versa… when we arranged for him and the girl to get to Calimport."

            "You cannot ever predict someone precisely," the figure shrugged.  

            "Why stop it now, though? If you could have saved yourself all that trouble on the ship… and in the forest…"

            "Let's just say it afforded me a good opportunity to play with something in another way," the figure smiled.  "And it was entertaining… up to a point.  No doubt it would be better if I did it the other way and let them claim the credit and a resolution… but since I no longer find all this amusing, there is little need or desire for all this to run on."

            "You speak of life as if it is a game of chess."

            "In a sense it is – you play with your pawns, and you guard your king," the figure looked at his hands for a moment, and chuckled.  "You can always find new pawns, though you'd never be sure which is your King, and your board is the world itself.  Try thinking about it like this sometime.  You might actually gain something."

            "And what would you lose?"

            "Well… for you people, perhaps this stuffy atmosphere, those dull cloaks and shadowed faces, maybe suffer a bit of a tan from the sun and better living from exercise… fewer of those odd odors from the experiments you create that I smelled all the way up this spire…"

            "We meant… by making everything so impersonal as a game… you might lose things of… importance."

            "I never do things impersonally.  It makes me lose focus.  And besides… what things do you mages have of importance?"

            "Contemplation.  A silent plane for the analysis of the unknown and the Other…?"

"I do fine without such contemplation… and I derive quite a satisfactory amount of enjoyment out of this life.  So, are we agreed? You will do all that I have mentioned… and then leave for Skullport?" 

            "What choice do we have?" the same mage sighed.  "Either to go, or stay and get killed… incidentally, you are a lot more formidable than what accounts would say."

            "Flattery will not get you anywhere," the figure smiled, and turned to leave.  For a brief moment, the tip of a large feather flicked into the light.

**

            It was to Entreri's, and Sam's, astonishment that, without any warning, flashy lights or sounds, that with their next step their environment abruptly changed to that of the inside of a dimly-lit, plain sandstone round chamber, the smell of burnt flesh in the air combined with incense and other unknown scents.  In the center of the chamber was a round polished stone table with cushioned chairs set at even intervals around it, their backs patterned with stained glass and precious stones.

            "I know this place!" Sam said excitedly.  "This is where the mages were!"

            "Really," Entreri commented, 'drawing' the sword from the gauntlet.  "Well, let us take a little look around, then."

            "Actually, I beat you to them," Jarlaxle walked out of the exit into the dim light, a cocky grin on his face.  "While you were off lost in the woods or wherever, I found this place and took care of them." 

            "See, I told you he was smart!" Sam tugged Entreri's cloak, hero-worship in her eyes as she looked at Jarlaxle.  Jarlaxle bowed in a single, complicated move to his appreciating audience of one.  

            "Did you find out what they were doing?" Entreri asked curiously.  Some part of him was asking questions, but mostly, he was tired and wanted to go back to Calimport and normality.

            "Apparently they were just experimenting with illusions and things," Jarlaxle shrugged.  "You know what mages are like."

            "Illusions?" Entreri frowned.  Where he had been did not seem to be illusion…  
            "As in… something about how 'real' they can be made to seem," Jarlaxle said thoughtfully.  "Did not understand that.  And besides, at that point in time one of them tried to attack me, so that happened," he pointed at a corner, where charred remains could be seen.

            "You have long ceased to surprise me," Entreri sighed.  "And… what about Zaknafein and Sam?"

            "Oh, one of the mages had this interesting little toy," Jarlaxle tossed something at Sam, who caught it reflexively.  In her little palm was a green jewel, like an emerald… that began to glow, gradually becoming brighter and brighter, flooding the room with overdramatic emerald light until Entreri had to look away.  When the light ceased, Sam and Zaknafein were in two separate bodies, and were looking each other over curiously.

            "So that is what you look like," Zaknafein said mildly.

            "How rude," Sam stuck her tongue out at him.  "I can look like a bird in my dream if I want to!"

            "Yes, a pink and yellow one," Zaknafein said dryly. 

            "At least it's cute! You're just absolutely boring in your dream.  You look exactly the same."

            "There is nothing wrong in that."

            "Add wings or something," Sam pouted. 

Zaknafein glanced at Jarlaxle, deciding to ignore Sam.  "Thanks."

            Jarlaxle smirked.  "You can pay me later."

            Sam poked Zaknafein on the arm, vaguely annoyed at the sudden inattention regarding her little argument on aesthetic astral projections.  "I think you owe someone an apology." She gestured at Entreri, who was staring at the both of them disbelievingly.  All of it seemed too easy… that they could have done it so quickly seemed so unreal, like the almost sheepish expression on Zaknafein's face as he got up and approached him.

            "Did you really mean what you… said?" Zaknafein murmured, when they were face-to-face, the hope in his eyes rather painful to see.

            "Of course," Entreri said, forcing a thin smile onto his face, getting very, very tired of this conversation, but knowing that exploding at Zaknafein would do a lot more harm than good.  "And this time if you say you don't believe me, I'm _really_ going to get angry."

            Zaknafein grinned then, rather mischievously, as if he had purposefully used that tone and that phrasing purely to irk the assassin, and opened his mouth to say something around that point just for fun – so Entreri moved quickly to close the gap between them and kiss him.  Dimly, in the background, as Zaknafein responded, he could hear Sam's squeak of "You didn't apologize!" and Jarlaxle's amused chuckle.

**

            The first thing Jarlaxle did back in camp was to look quickly into the tent he and Kimmuriel shared, checking on the mage, who was still sleeping as they made a quick dinner/supper, so soundly asleep that Entreri rather believed (and correctly so) that it was a drugged one.  Since he was really tired and did not want to subject himself to Jarlaxle's convoluted manner of explanations that were likely to hold as much truth in them as untruths or omissions, he made no issue about it.  Zaknafein did not seem to notice, or if he did, he certainly did not seem to care – all he had been doing since they had come out of the woods was to stick close to Entreri and touch him whenever appropriate or possible.  Entreri was far too tired to protest, and besides, the attention _was_ appreciated, since it was, more or less, not indecent or suggestive.  

            "So, what now?" Sam asked sleepily, after she neatly finished her portion of the rabbits that they had finally caught on the way back from the mages' abode.

            "We can rest until the morning, then set off for Baldur's Gate," Entreri said, pushing her gently in the direction of his tent.  "We'd probably be taking turns keeping watch, so there will be enough space."

            "Good night then," Sam said, yawning, too tired to talk about it, and disappeared into the tent, only too happy to sleep now that her hunger had abated. 

            Jarlaxle watched her go, and then turned back to them.  "It is only a few hours more to morning.  I do not believe keeping watch requires all three of us…" his voice trailed off, and he tilted his head slightly back in the general direction of Kimmuriel.

            "You could rest," Zaknafein commented mildly.  "I do not feel tired." He sat comfortably against Entreri, arm around the other's waist, watching the assassin begin to doze off.

            "Small wonder, that," Jarlaxle grinned.  "I think of the three of us, you probably expended the least amount of energy." 

            "Be quiet," Zaknafein replied, with no malice in the words, poking the fire with a nearby stick, then unbuckling Entreri's cloak to cover him.  

            "Good night," Jarlaxle smirked, and went into his tent. 

            After a few moments, Entreri murmured, "Is he gone?"

            "Yes," Zaknafein smiled.  "Though I think he might have seen you signaling to me.  Did you practice before? Your technique is very clumsy."

            "I did not have very patient teachers," Entreri replied defensively.  "And I wanted to know if you were… all right."

            "You would have to define 'all right', I am afraid," Zaknafein remarked playfully as Entreri pulled the cloak over the dark elven warrior as well.  "Do you mean whether or not I am still mentally unstable?"

            "To put it frankly… yeah."

            "Are we not all unstable in some form or another?" Zaknafein murmured, indicating Jarlaxle's – and Kimmuriel's – tent with a wave of his hand. 

            "If you mean who I think you mean… I would guess that may be true," Entreri conceded.  "You did seem relatively 'normal' for a while, after that incident with the mask."

            "You may have to thank Sam for that," Zaknafein hesitated.  "She kept telling me she was sure you loved me, such that I… well, it was comforting.  Something to build upon.  I mean, something stable." He looked down at Entreri, who had an expression of confusion on his face.  "I am not making much sense, am I?"

            "No," Entreri agreed.  "But I believe I may understand what you mean." 

            They sat in companionable silence for a while, listening to the sounds from the forest – of frogs and insects, the rustle of something small in the branches of the ash to their left, the howls of a wolf pack somewhere far away, looking down the long, winding road to Baldur's Gate and civilization.

            "I really do love you," Entreri murmured, feeling himself falling asleep against Zaknafein's shoulder.

            Zaknafein nodded slowly, his hold around Entreri's hip tightening in relief or possessiveness.  "I believe you."

**

            Kimmuriel woke up to the scent of something nice cooking, and in his groggy state he could hear, oddly enough, four voices… his master's… that human… Zaknafein… and the little girl?

            Yawning, he forced himself to get him, wincing at the feeling of the prolonged-pain aftereffects of the healing potions, and got out of the tent, instinctively shielding his eyes from the sun, though the spells he had placed on himself and his master were still in force… and his master was in front of him, a playful smile on his face.  "Ah, the second part of my breakfast is awake."  

            Kimmuriel's confused look only served to widen the grin, and Jarlaxle pressed his mouth against his, tongue entwining with the psionist's, and Kimmuriel could taste the faint hint of meat and spices in his master… and Jarlaxle broke the gesture, laughing at something Zaknafein had said that Kimmuriel hadn't heard properly.  He frowned at the look of Entreri, Zaknafein and Sam all seated around the fire eating – something seemed wrong about the picture, but his head seemed blanketed in a thick cloud this morning, and it did not come immediately to mind… so he looked blankly at Jarlaxle in hope of some clue.

            "We took care of the mages last night," Jarlaxle said, guiding Kimmuriel to a space on the ground and pressing a bowl and cutlery into uncomprehending hands.  

            "Mages?" Kimmuriel frowned.  Yes, there was something about mages… 

            "I think you fed him too much of that sleeping drug," Zaknafein snorted.  "Was it Hlei'in?"

            "What about it?" Sam asked curiously, through a mouthful of the stew.

            "It knocks out the person for a while, and makes him or her extremely befuddled for an hour or so after he or she wakes up," Entreri shrugs.  "Part of its ingredients include a certain type of Underdark mushrooms, which is why we don't use it in Calimport despite the fact that it's easily made into liquid or powder, and is tasteless."

            The words slid past Kimmuriel in slow progression, though he did, with a few false starts, grasp the idea of the bowl and the food and began eating carefully.  Jarlaxle sat behind him and put his arms around his waist reassuringly.  "Ignore them," he murmured, and the mage nodded.  To Entreri, he remarked, "I did not know that you had such knowledge of drugs." 

            "It's rather unprofessional to kill people who don't attack you and you are not contracted to kill," Entreri replied dryly.  "So I know a hell of a lot about it."

            The rest of the idle chatter didn't register with the psionist, and it was only about an hour later, after they had packed, and begun to leave that the cloud seemed to clear, and an immediate question came to mind.  "You went to find the mages without me?" he asked Jarlaxle, annoyed that the note of reproach surfaced in his voice as one of hurt bewilderment.

            Jarlaxle shrugged.  "I thought it would be better for all if you slept instead and I went to take care of them.  It worked out fine, did it not?"

            "Yes, but…"

            Jarlaxle cut in before he could continue.  "Besides, you were hurt.  And I did not want any more… incidents."

            A hundred phrases rose to mind, from the righteously indignant to gratification… but what did come out was "You did not?"

            "After all," Jarlaxle smiled warmly, his words seeming at odds with the benign affection written all over his features – the soft look in the half-closed eyes, the gentle cast to his mouth… "I did tell you before.  I would not want to lose such a beautiful toy."

            Knowing that Jarlaxle could easily control his features and his voice at the same time… Kimmuriel did not really know what to believe, or whether the implications suggested were either of them true, so he nodded his head weakly and muttered some sort of thanks, relieved that Jarlaxle did not press the issue, but it hurt so much… more so when he could clearly see that Entreri and Zaknafein seemed to have resolved their relationship's little problems – the little girl sat with Zaknafein on his horse, laughing as the dark elven warrior teased his lover about something or other, while Entreri seemed a lot more relaxed than he had been for days.  

            "That was a bit of an anticlimax," Zaknafein called back at Jarlaxle, apparently ignoring Entreri's haughty reply.  "You could at least have left some for us."

            Jarlaxle laughed.  "I will remember that the next time."

            "Making us come all the way to Cloakwood and meet with so little entertainment…" Zaknafein said with a look of mock annoyance.  "Most unreasonable of you."

            Entreri snorted.  "So little entertainment? Well, excuse _me_ for being so unamusing."

            "I had fun," Sam offered.  "Especially when that girl in the other world asked you all those funny questions."

            Entreri shuddered.  "Don't talk to me about it."

            "Okay, 'Aragorn'."

            "Aragorn?" Jarlaxle raised an eyebrow.  "Who is that?"

            "I do not even _want_ to remember anything," Entreri said firmly.

            "Or when that other girl dressed up as a guy tried to…"

            "Sam!"

            "Do go on, my lady," Jarlaxle grinned.  Entreri glared at him over his shoulder.

            Zaknafein smirked.  "_I _found it interesting."

            "You didn't," Sam poked Zaknafein in the leg.  "You were _jealous_.  I could feel it."

            "Didn't he think I was some sort of an illusion?" Entreri asked mildly.

            "Well… he was still jealous," Sam shrugged.

            "At least that stupid incident had something out of it then," Entreri said a little slyly, his previous irritation apparently forgotten.  "So I might admit more often to false names in the future."

             "So you like having many girls using that light producing device on you and dragging you around?" Zaknafein questioned blandly.  "Very oddly dressed girls, at that."

            "You're still jealous," Sam commented solemnly.

            "He has no right to be," Entreri pointed out.  "Considering that if he just wore surface elf skin colors and walked down any street in any human city, he'd probably be mobbed by women."

            "Try it in Baldur's Gate," Jarlaxle suggested, and then glanced at Kimmuriel, who was keeping his usual silence.  "Kimmuriel could try it as well."

            "What?" Kimmuriel blinked.

            "Then we could see which of them get…"

            "Am I the only one who thinks this suggestion of yours is very… juvenile?" Entreri remarked.

            "Well, you suggested it," Sam said, bouncing excitedly.  "I vote Zaknafein."

            "Can we not talk about this?" Entreri asked a little plaintively.  "It's only a few hours' ride to Baldur's Gate, and strange conversations give me a headache."

            "We can relieve that headache in Baldur's Gate," Zaknafein's predatory smile verged on a suggestive leer. 

            "I want to go to the toy exhibition," Sam said, blissfully oblivious.

            Zaknafein nodded.  "We should get a few 'toys' for ourselves."  The emphasis he put on the word 'toys' was an obvious indication of his meaning, and Entreri sighed. 

            "I could lend you some," Jarlaxle said innocently.

            "You have toys?" Sam asked happily.  "Fuzzy ones?"

            "Oh yes.  Some are… fuzzy." Jarlaxle smirked, winking at Kimmuriel, who flushed a little at the sudden memories. 

            "Can I see?" Sam asked, the undertones completely bypassing her.

            "No," Entreri said hurriedly, changing the subject.  "You can buy larger things in Baldur's Gate… since we will be taking the airship back."

            "A big fuzzy horse," Sam said, patting the mane of the real horse she was sitting on.  "I like horses."

            "I can get you a real one," Entreri muttered, since he disapproved of stuffed toys.  Vaguely, he wondered if Zaknafein still entertained his reactions to stuffed animals that he seemed to have gotten from Sam, and decided to find out.  He really did not like that look of calculation that had appeared on Zaknafein's features when Jarlaxle had offered to lend some of his 'toys'.

**

            Iparken seemed quite surprised to see them at the area of the docks reserved for airships.  "Done already?"

            "Yes… and we were wondering when you would be able to depart."

            "Well… maybe in three days or so," Iparken replied thoughtfully.  "We've taken care of most of our cargo, and the repairs weren't too bad." He grinned at Jarlaxle.  "We're all rooming in the King's Inn, if you want more games of chess."

            "Coincidentally… we all have rooms there as well," Jarlaxle smiled.  "It will be my pleasure."

            "All right," Iparken nodded.  "Baldur's Gate is a bit boring this time of year, but I guess you can find things to do in the three days." 

            "I still have to visit the thieves' guild here," Entreri agreed.

            "They may be a bit busy – the last I heard they got into a bit of trouble with the Grand Dukes over something which I can't remember," Iparken said, all too happy to spread gossip.  "So you might want to go about there more carefully.  And if you're too bored from taking your little 'sister' around the toy exhibitions you could always go explore the sewers.  For some reason in all human cities the sewers breed strange monsters."

            "No thank you," Entreri said, grimacing.  "I dislike the sewers.  Despite having to use them sometimes."

            "I'd see you later then," Iparken said, turning his head to look at one of his mages, who was shouting something from the deck of the airship floating a few feet above the ground behind them.  The entire process of reparations seemed a bit dangerous to Entreri, with all sorts of strange equipment levitating up to the ship, and mages going on and off it to yell conflicting orders at each other.  All the dweomered arrows seemed to have been removed – and had probably been sold, come to think of it.

             Everything seemed so unreal – that Jarlaxle and Kimmuriel could be to his left, the mercenary leader making all sorts of outrageous comments to a female moon elf mage who blushed and made eyes at him, to Kimmuriel's subtle displeasure… that Zaknafein could be holding a small human girl and talking to her about stuffed toys…

            Perhaps… this world wasn't real after all.  

            But at that moment, when Zaknafein turned back to him and called his name – Entreri found that he didn't care.


	11. Epilogue

Author's Note: 

I know that in Part 1 I sort of attached the prologue to the story itself, but I think doing the same for the epilogue might just be a little too weird.  So here's a really short epilogue.  Thanks for reading, and have fun! By the way – I'm still open to bribery.

Epilogue and Miscellaneous

            "I do not believe one word of it," Drizzt said stubbornly.  Some time during the narrative he had seated himself on one of the chairs before the desk, though he sat in a very decorous manner, unlike the lazy grace exuding from Jarlaxle.

            "Oh really? I am _so_ hurt," Jarlaxle winked, shifting the eyepatch for no apparent reason other than to make Drizzt frown and wonder why the hell he had done it.  "Which part of my graceful narrative makes you say that?"

            "Every single part of it," Drizzt enunciated with exaggerated precision.  "What makes you think that I would believe that my father, a paragon of the strength of personal will, could be driven insane by illusions?"

            "Strength of personal will?" Jarlaxle repeated, chuckling.  "You obviously have never seen him drunk before then."

            "I seriously doubt he has ever been drunk," Drizzt said coldly.  

            "And how long have you known him? Seriously, I mean." Jarlaxle took his feet off the table so that he could lean back in the chair without tipping the whole thing over.  "Twenty years? If you would compare that to how long I have known him…"

            "And your willingness and ability to twist the truth is common knowledge," Drizzt cut in, before Jarlaxle could elaborate on the intricacies of his interpersonal relationship with Zaknafein.

            "Ah, that is true," Jarlaxle smiled.  "It does tend to put a strain on my friendships."

            "So, where is Zaknafein now? You have delayed me long enough," Drizzt demanded, the familiar righteous indignation rising back into his expression.

            "In Calimport, of course," Jarlaxle said, enjoying Drizzt's obvious irritation.  "And very close, I must admit, considering how Bregan D'aerthe has decided to continue staying with Artemis Entreri's little business… and how he is, of course, still with the human even after these four months or so."

            "You still wish to perpetuate that… that… lie," Drizzt choked.  "How dare you slander the name of my father!"

            "Well… one has to give him some leeway, or he would eventually drive you off the brink," someone said pleasantly behind Drizzt, who whirled, astonished, seeing one of the hooded guards at the entrance walk in and slip off said hood to reveal the wickedly grinning countenance of his father.

            "Father!" Drizzt blinked.  "I… did not notice that…"

            "And you were right," Zaknafein continued mildly, "That rogue is lying between his teeth."

            "Zaknafein…" Jarlaxle chided with mock anger, an expression of pure mischief on his face.

            "I knew it!" Drizzt said triumphantly, with a glare at Jarlaxle.

            "Actually…" Zaknafein drawled, walking with silent grace around the table to Jarlaxle, and then sliding an arm with suggestive familiarity around Jarlaxle's shoulders, "Jarlaxle is my lover, not Entreri."

            Drizzt stared at the two of them with horror as Jarlaxle chuckled.  "Did you have to tell him this way?" 

            "It had to emerge eventually," Zaknafein murmured, and lowered his head, as if to kiss Jarlaxle… and they both watched Drizzt's rapidly retreating back until it disappeared around the corner, the sound of a door slamming echoing down the corridors just moments after.  A short moment of silence – and the both of them burst into peals of laughter.  

--

Postscript: Hahahahahaha!

--

 Afterword

            "That was possibly one of your worst endings ever," Zaknafein commented, sitting cross-legged on the Author's bed.  Admittedly, through much nagging, he had conceded the boots, neatly placed down stairs where they belonged.   "_And_ I maintain that I am not homosexual, damnit."

            "You must admit it was really funny," the Author smirked.  "Especially since through the 'epilogue' you can't really tell if you are with Jarlaxle, or really with Entreri, or which parts of the story were viable."

            "I am _not_…" Zaknafein muttered irritably, trailing off.  "You should just have asked Jarlaxle to do this.  I am sure he would be far more willing to pander to your strange fantasies."

            "That's only because no one wanted to bribe me to stop writing," the Author pointed out.

            "Who would spend that kind of money on you?" Zaknafein snorted.  "If they do not like it, they just would not read it."

            "That's true," the Author sighed. "Scratch that one scheme, then."

            "And… did you just change room?"

            "Well, we've got to move my base of operations to Melbourne now that I'm studying here," the Author commented, looking across the mess of toys, biscuit packets, sad bits of tissue, toys and pieces of paper.  "Is it any different?"

            "Other than you now have a roommate, not really," Zaknafein shrugged.  "You are still incredibly messy."

            "Sure, criticize my lifestyle."

            "There is not that much else to do, other than this stupid list of questions you asked me to read."

            "Well, hurry up then!"

            "I do not really see why.  Your current place does not even have the decency to have wine."

            "There's a bottle of Bailey's somewhere…"

            "You mean that alcoholic milk thing?" Zaknafein wrinkled his nose.  "You humans are just strange."

            "This coming from someone whose race makes mushrooms into everything."

            "Mushrooms taste good."

            "No they don't.  Okay, if you do this you can have that bottle of Chardonnay we were using for cooking.  It's white wine though."

            "Better than nothing," Zaknafein sighed.  "All right.  Why was this story so abruptly cut short?"

            "Because I actually got bored of it," the Author said blandly.  "It's fun for a while, then you just don't really see much point in continuing.  Serious stories are better."

            "This was not serious?"

            "Well… it wasn't meant to be, but somehow along the lines it took on a veneer of seriousness."

            "So… your next story?"

            "I'm thinking probably a sequel – yeah, I know that's irritating – to Second Chances, or something.  I haven't decided."

            "Good, do Second Chances," Zaknafein's agreement was a bit too enthusiastic.

            "Or I could write a lemon one-off slash 'fic involving you and Entreri," the Author grinned evilly.  "Or Jarlaxle."

            "No." Zaknafein said firmly.

            "Um.  Kimmuriel?"

            "Mind-readers." Zaknafein nearly spat out the word.  "And… why am I having this conversation with you?"

            "Because I'm too lazy to actually go and do some real work." The Author looked guiltily at her stack of assignments.  "Which… since there's not much else I can go on about this, I might as well start doing."

            "Chardonnay, right?"

            "Yeah, whatever.  Try not to break anything."


End file.
